


Complicated

by pearlcaster



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-10 11:57:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 25,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5584537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearlcaster/pseuds/pearlcaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is far from over. And this time, Joan Ferguson will do whatever it takes to win.<br/>But in war, there are casualties...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Researcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Researcher/gifts).



> This is my offering in thanks to all of you who have provided me with such delight over the past few weeks.  
> Comments are very much appreciated!!

A small, dark shape filled the backlit doorway. 

“Hello, Joan.” 

Joan Ferguson, hunched over a small writing desk, turned her head and looked up from under dark lashes at the unimposing figure of Vera Bennett.

“I wondered when you’d come.” Joan put down her pencil and quickly closed the notepad she had been filling with lines of small, neat handwriting. She turned in her chair to fully face the newcomer. “You’ve come to gloat.” 

It had been six weeks since the fire at Wentworth. Joan no longer required physical restraints. 

“No. Not gloat.” Vera crossed her arms and leaned a little against the doorway. “I hear you’re doing better. That you’re out of the cell.” The strained positivity of the voice fell short.

“Yes.” Joan shifted in the chair. “Better.” 

“I suppose the solitude suits you. Gives you some space and time to contemplate… everything.” The sharp chin came up. Vera’s blue eyes were cold, the expressive lips pursed. She looked directly at Joan. “I suppose you don’t get many visitors.”

“Just you, Vera.” The tone was flat. 

“I wasn’t going to come,” Vera’s voice was over-loud. “Not after what you did.” She met Joan’s eyes momentarily, looked away quickly.

“That’s a little ironic, isn’t it?” Joan leaned forward in her chair. “You went to visit Mr. Fletcher, too.” She folded her hands, rested her elbows on her knees. “You were willing to throw in with him against me, even after what he did.”

Vera stared at her. “What do you mean, ‘after what he did’?” 

“You didn’t know.” Joan cocked her head to the side. “He was working with Channing on that brothel… _project_.” Her mouth twisted on the word. “How do you think he became so chummy with Mr. Channing? Was it merely a _coincidence_ that Channing recommended him over you for the Governorship after Erica Davidson left?” 

The younger woman stood unnaturally still. “Fletch would never do that,” She shook her head. “You’re manipulating me.” She gave a dry bark of a laugh. “You can’t even help it. It’s your nature.”

Joan continued. “And he raped a prisoner.” Dark eyes peered up from behind a curtain of silver-shot hair. “Jess Warner, the day of Smith's escape." 

Vera’s eyes narrowed. “Fucking liar,” she hissed. 

She turned on her heel and left. 

***

She played it back again.

For the sixth time, she watched the grainy CCTV image of Fletch and Warner talking in the hallway. Their body language was unmistakable. She watched as Warner disappeared into the showers. Half a minute later, Fletch followed. 

Five minutes later, they emerged. 

Vera clicked pause.

“Oh my God.” Vera slumped forward onto the desk and held her head in her hands.

Light from a small desk lamp cast shadows about the stark, grey room, reflecting off the Wentworth crest that dominated the focus wall. Vera’s assistant was long gone. 

Joan was right. She was right about Warner, about Fletch being oddly chummy with Channing. And now that she thought about it, she recalled that Fletch had got the prison database administrator’s password from Channing. That was how they’d found out the identity of Jianna. 

Vera picked up her iPhone. She hesitated. After a moment, she scrolled through her contacts and selected one.

Matt Fletcher.

It rang twice. “Vera!” The voice on the other end was bright.

Vera’s was leaden. “You had sex with Jess Warner the day Smith escaped." 

There was a long silence. Vera heard slow breathing. In the background, music played and glasses clinked. 

“Fletch!” Vera dropped her voice. “Tell me it’s not true. Tell me you didn’t fuck a prisoner.” 

More slow breathing. “It’s true.” Another long pause. “I’m sorry, Vera, I…”

She hung up.

***


	2. Chapter 2

It was two weeks before she could bear to see her again.

“How did you know?” 

“I know about everything that happens in my prison.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me at the time?”

“I did tell you. I told you about the brothel business.”

“I mean about Jess Warner. About Fletch.” 

There was a pause. “Vera, you had told me what had… transpired between yourself and Mr. Fletcher.” A flicker of aversion crossed the older woman’s features. “It wasn’t necessary to tell you, and… I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” The misleading statement rolled easily off Ferguson’s tongue, just as the lie had rolled off Vera’s that day in her office, when she had confronted her about the visits to Mr. Fletcher. 

“I watched the CCTV, Joan. By the way they seemed to be flirting, the sex was consensual.”

“Sex with a prisoner isn’t consensual,” Joan was standing by the window, looking out. “It’s rape.” She turned to face the smaller woman. “Prisoners _can’t_ consent. You know that.”

“Then you’re guilty too, Joan. You had a relationship with a prisoner. You had _sex_ with a prisoner.”

“Did I, Vera? That’s an interesting assumption.” Joan’s head tilted to one side. “Are you sure?”

“Did you?”

Joan sighed, and sat down at the desk. “Alright, Vera, just say what you came to say. Confront me. Catalogue my misdeeds. Shout at me, tell me again how I betrayed you. Do whatever it is you feel you must to get past your anger towards me. Clearly, you have unresolved… _issues_.” Joan locked her eyes on Vera’s, her face impassive. She rested her forearms against the chair’s metal armrests. 

Her last word hung between the women. 

_“Issues?”_ Vera’s jaw incredulously dropped open. “ _My_ issues? You’re sitting in here, after everything that’s happened, all of it, and you’re telling _me_ that I need to get over my _issues_?” The small woman stepped into the room, her face suddenly flushed, head cocked, glaring angrily at Joan. “ _You’ve_ got the issues, Joan. _You’re_ the fucking psychopath!”

Joan sat still. Her sensuous lips curved imperceptibly at one corner. “I’m not a psychopath, Vera. I’m… complicated.” 

“Complicated, bullshit! Self-serving bullshit!” Vera’s chest heaved. She took another step towards Joan, now on the boundary of Joan’s personal space. She leaned in close, her voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re not complicated, you’re a murderer. You ordered Fletch’s death. You waged psychological warfare against Jodi Spiteri. You… you _tortured_ her. Don’t you dare tell me you’re not a psychopath. ”

Joan didn’t flinch. She looked on, impassive. Vera stared down at her, expectantly.

Joan impatiently flicked her fingers outward. “Well, keep going, Vera. Get it all out. I can tell you want to say a lot more than that. Tell me about my betrayal. Tell me about the riot. Tell me about how I failed you. Tell me how everything is _my fault_.” 

Vera snapped up straight. Her arms unfolded, hands clenched at her sides. Scarlet slowly crept up her neck from her starched, white collar.

“From the very first, you set about to manipulate me. You… conscripted me, Joan. You used me as a tool to advance your plans.” Vera planted her hands on her hips. “Your morals were bankrupt from the beginning, _Governor_ Ferguson.” She spat out the formal title. “You tried to get Anderson to say that Will had raped her, fathered her baby. You knew it was false, and you pushed her to it anyway. You’re despicable!” 

“I did do that,” admitted Joan, her arched brows undaunted. “Next?”

Vera took a breath and continued. “You hired that… that _thug_ to kill Fletch. You knew he’d found out your dirty secrets, and you wanted him out of the way.” Vera unfurled her clenched fists and rested them deliberately on Joan’s forearms, pinning her to the metal chair. Vera’s face stood inches from Joan’s, a pink suffusing her thin, swanlike throat. “You did anything necessary to stay in power. You killed Simone Slater when you found out she was going to take out Bea Smith and ruin your precious plans.”

“Yes,” Joan said, simply. 

Vera clamped her hands across Joan’s forearms, her fingernails digging painfully into the flesh. Joan ignored them. 

Truth was a scalpel, a precision weapon. Apply just the right amount of pressure, and the wound gave the impression of vulnerability. And to a person like Vera, vulnerability could create a sense of protectiveness. 

Too heavy handed, and you could disembowel yourself.

Vera was no use to her if their special bond couldn’t survive some truth. Ferguson needed to know just how far she could push the girl. 

“You tortured Kelly Bryant after she caught you with Jianna at Blackmoore. You tortured Jodi Spiteri.”

“I never touched either of them, Vera.” Joan met the younger woman’s eyes. Vera saw only honesty.

“Alright, maybe you didn’t touch her, but you destroyed Jodie’s mind. Deliberately.” The chin came up again. “You did it to hide your crimes, to facilitate more crimes.” Small beads of sweat had formed across the furrowed brow. 

The air in the room was thick and full. The silence down the hall was a vacuum into which Vera’s words slipped away. “It brought you pleasure,” she whispered.

“Yes,” said Joan. “It did.”

Vera blinked. They were almost face-to-face, so close to each other that Joan could smell Vera’s hair product. “You’re evil,” She continued in a low voice. “You destroy every obstacle in your path.” Her breath came hot in Joan’s face. “But you never destroyed me, Joan.” Vera stood up, took a step back, looking down. “I became an obstacle to you, but you never destroyed me. Your mistake, Joan.” 

Joan said nothing. She stared levelly at the smaller woman.

“You… you isolated me from the other officers. You _targeted_ me. You saw me, you saw me… You saw that I was weak, compromised.” Vera’s tongue felt heavy; the words came thick and fast. 

“You turned me into your… puppet.” Vera’s face was all red now. Joan noted that the sweat from her brow was trickling into the layer of foundation, marring the carefully constructed visage. “I did _things_ for you, Joan. I did things I would never have done if you hadn’t overborne my will.” 

“I know.” Joan’s voice was low.

Vera whispered. “You made me yours.” 

Joan nodded.

Abruptly, Vera’s head sagged. Two tears dropped onto Joan’s knees. “You threw me to those dogs,” Vera sobbed, angrily. “You didn’t protect me. You let them jab me with that needle.” 

Joan said nothing, her dark eyes inscrutable. 

“You’ve ruined me, Joan.” The words tumbled out. “I can’t get past what you’ve done to me.” She wept openly.

Long moments dragged by. Vera’s raw sobs occasionally punctuated the silence.

A hand came up, and slowly rested upon the tight knot at Vera’s nape. Joan leaned her tall frame forward until they were cheek to cheek.

“Vera, _you’re_ the Governor now.” Joan whispered hotly in her ear. “You have to be strong. I know— _I know_ – how difficult that is.” The strong hand gripped her nape and pushed the small form to her knees. “But you need to keep it together.” She drew back a little. Joan’s other hand cradled the small chin between thumb and forefinger and lifted it. Cool, black eyes gazed down into teary blue. 

“I’m weak.” The tears came fully now. 

“Yes,” Joan said simply.

“I hate you.” Vera’s hands dropped to Joan’s knees. Joan’s hands guided Vera’s head into her lap and gently stroked her beautiful tresses. “I miss you.”

“Vera, Vera…” Joan trailed off. She sighed, again. “I know.” Two graceful fingers traced a path down a wet cheek. “I’ve missed you, too.”

***


	3. Chapter 3

The afternoon had lengthened. Dark yellow rays poured into the room through the lone vertical window in the corner by the bed. 

Finally, Joan spoke.

“If you truly believed I were an ‘evil psychopath’, you wouldn’t be here, confronting me, putting yourself out as an obstacle in my way.” Joan teased out a curly strand from the French knot, coiling and fingering it against the long, elegant neck. “You would be afraid of what that would mean for you.” 

Vera said nothing.

“None of this is simple, Vera. I’m not a ‘psychopath’.” She let the word be slowly sucked into the institutional silence.

“You think that psychopaths feel no emotion, no empathy for others. But you know that’s not true for me. I’m not emotionless. You’ve seen it for yourself.” 

Hot tears streamed down Vera’s cheeks. She pressed her face harder into Joan’s lap. The strangled voice made itself clear through Joan’s ugly brown, drawstring pants. “You feel nothing. You’ve never cared about me, about anyone.” Vera’s voice was small. “You’re empty, Joan. Selfish. You only care about yourself.” 

“I’m not empty.” The finger stopped. The hand stopped. The light in the room had all but disappeared. The words echoed blankly across the small space.

Vera turned her head, stared at the wall.

 _“I’m too full_ , Vera,” Joan’s voice took on an unearthly tone. “I have to control myself so strictly because I’m _too full_ of emotion.” Vera could feel Joan’s fingers grazing her temple. 

“If I were devoid of emotion, would I have risked my career to revenge myself against a man who took my lover’s child away?” The hand sought Vera’s chin, gently tilting Vera’s head up, capturing the blue eyes with her own. Vera searched those eyes for some clue of sincerity. Joan’s eyes were strangely neutral.

“I have felt love, Vera.” Joan spoke each word deliberately. “Felt love so intensely that I couldn’t control myself, couldn’t stop myself.” The ticking of a clock penetrated the eerie silence of the sterile hall. 

“I’ve felt anger strong enough that I’ve almost destroyed myself because of it.” The intensity of Joan’s words clashed curiously with her measured expression.

“I’ve felt emotions so powerful that I’ve broken my mind trying to control them! _I’m in a damned mental institution_!” Joan’s whispered words came urgent and breathless. “ _They put me in a straight jacket_!” 

Vera sat silent and unmoving. She closed her eyes.

Joan continued. “I don’t know if you understand exactly what that means to me, Vera. How much it shames me.” Vera imagined the corners of Joan’s mouth tightening in pain. 

“Am I selfish? Can you call my motivations selfish?” Joan’s voice had recovered its familiar, clipped and professional tone. “Perhaps revenge is selfish.” The voice seemed to come from far away. “But it doesn’t _feel_ selfish, Vera.”

Vera felt a deep pain in her stomach.

The hand returned. This time, it played with the crisp, starched collar and the tight, black tie. The index finger slipped underneath the thick fabric and loosened the tie. Steady hands pulled away the top button. A waft of thick, hot air escaped from Vera’s shirt; the smell of intensity rose into Joan’s awareness. 

She was keenly aware of why Vera had braved this visit. More so, she expected, than Vera was herself aware. 

“Vera, I have spent hours thinking over that decision I made in the riot, the decision that put you in danger. I know that I did what I had to do. You don’t understand yet what that means, but you will.” Joan’s finger traced the soft skin along Vera’s exposed ear. “You have no idea what was going through my mind when I made that decision. You have no idea what I was _feeling_ , Vera.” The hand stopped. “The stakes were so incredibly high. The most important thing in the world to me was on the line.”

Vera’s breath slowed to a crawl.

“I’ve spent the last six weeks working with a psychiatrist, Vera, about all of it. She didn’t understand. She thought I was diabolical.”

“You _are_ diabolical.” The leaden words dropped into a long, empty silence. 

“’Diabolical: Cunning, fiendish, unholy. Belonging to or so evil as the Devil’,” Joan recited from memory. Her voice was matter-of-fact. “Yes, I am cunning. Yes, at times, I admit, I can be unholy.” Her lips twisted into a wry smile. “But evil? No, Vera. I am not ‘profoundly immoral and malevolent’. I am, in fact, a very moral person.” Joan’s eyes were guarded. “It’s simply that my methods of pursuing that morality are different to those of other people.”

Vera buried her face again into Joan’s lap. “I hate you,” she murmured. “I _hate_ you.”

“I understand.” Joan resumed her stroking of the chestnut hair. One by one, she pulled out each of the hairpins holding the French coif in place, lining them up perfectly on the writing desk. Vera’s thick tresses spilled from the destroyed formation, Joan’s fingers coaxing them out into flowing waves down the loose, white shirt. 

***

Night had fallen on the hot Australian summer. The open window gave no relief from the cloying humidity. Vera now lay curled upon the metal cot, her emotional exhaustion having claimed her consciousness as a temporary casualty. Joan draped a ragged blanket over the snoozing form, the pencil skirt clinging desperately to the small but well-proportioned hips and thighs. She pried off Vera’s black heels and placed them smartly together at the foot of the bed.

Joan returned to writing in her notepad.

Over an hour passed before Vera stirred on the cot. The clock showed 8:30 p.m. 

“Vera.” Joan’s voice was low.

“Hmmm.” Vera’s voice was sleepy and distant. Her tiny feet curled and uncurled themselves. “I’ve fallen asleep on your bed.”

“Yes,” said Joan. “You have. But it’s almost time to go. Will you visit me again?”

“Maybe.” The small frame gathered itself and sat up on the cot. The nylon-clad feet slipped back into the heels.

Vera stood. Joan stood. 

The taller woman looked down upon the sleepy, rumpled features of the younger. She reached out a hand to her face, but Vera roughly pushed the hand away. She raised her own hand to her cheek, remembering the last time Joan had ‘touched’ her there.

“About the riot, your decision.” Vera’s voice was accusatory. “You didn’t say that _I_ was that most important thing to you.” The blue eyes were wide, and so very vulnerable. 

“I can’t, Vera.” Joan met her eyes. Her voice was sultry. “You know I can’t.” 

Vera left soundlessly.

***


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re free to go, Ms. Ferguson,” The detective stood and offered his hand for shaking. “I’m sorry that we wasted your time.” He seemed sincerely contrite. “That place was clearly a nest of vipers.” 

It was two weeks later. Joan Ferguson stood up from the interview table at the Clayton police station, ignoring the hand. 

They weren’t recommending any charges. “Don’t worry about it, Detective. I can’t blame you for taking the line you did, given everything.” She nodded curtly, turned on a heel and exited the stark interview room.

Joan walked with her lawyer to the car in silence. She could sense Strickland’s jubilation beside her. He opened the passenger side door for Joan; wordlessly, she sat. The door clicked shut.

“I told you they wouldn’t proceed with the capital charges.” Strickland’s voice teemed with excitement. “Though I can’t believe they didn’t even recommend an assault or intimidation charge on the Spiteri matter.” He turned the key in the ignition. “That went beyond even the best of my expectations.” 

“Indeed.” Joan’s tone was carefully controlled.

“Westfall’s evidence collapsed as soon as you produced that recording of the Doyle confession on the Meg Jackson killing,” Strickland continued. “After she went on record supporting Doyle’s parole, supporting her as fit for society.” He peeled out of the small parking lot, merging with the traffic along the main commuter artery. “That kiss with Doyle in the parking lot sure was a scorcher,” he added. “Inappropriate relationship with a prisoner. Amen for CCTV.” 

Joan stared out the window. She would rather have been the one driving, however her license had been temporarily revoked on account of the medication she was taking to control hallucinations.

“You know, testimony from Doyle and Smith might have hurt your case, if not for the cross-contamination by Westfall and Jackson,” Strickland continued, blissfully unaware of the impatience emanating from the passenger’s side. “But considering Jackson was suspended for suspected collaboration with Smith in that escape, and as the prime suspect in the Harry Smith murder, his evidence was worse than useless!” Strickland laughed with excitement. “And Doyle had motivation to pin Slater’s death on anyone else, given that she brought those drugs in.” He merged aggressively into the left-hand lane. “They didn’t stand a chance.” He chuckled.

“I’m aware of that, Mr. Strickland.” Joan closed her eyes and pressed her head back against the headrest. She tried to relax. 

“And Matthew Fletcher, good God, that diary of his was just dynamite. Fucking Jackson’s wife, fucking a prisoner,” Joan flinched at the profanity. “Documented suspicions of Will Jackson entering his house illegally…" Strickland laughed. “What sort of moron puts all that into writing?”

“Nils kept his mouth shut.” Ferguson fumbled for her phone. “I suppose I’ll need a new phone so that I can properly thank him.” 

“No reason to shop you, Joan.” He turned up the air conditioning. “With no admissible DNA linking him to anything, it just left Fletcher’s testimony that his memory was ‘triggered’ by that Bea Smith sketch of Jesper.” He glanced over quickly. “A sketch she produced after tox reports showed her riddled with psychoactives.” He grinned. “No CCTV, no objective evidence. No murder weapon, no clear motivation for you to want Fletcher dead. Westfall doing ‘memory enhancing’ exercises with Fletcher right before the miraculous ‘trigger’. None of it was ever going to see a court.”

Joan rolled her eyes and stared out the window at the rush-hour traffic. She had known things would unfold this way, knew well enough that she had risked everything on it. 

“Then there’s Gambaro, with that statement that you pushed her down the stairs.” He gestured at the USB stick clipped to the front of the manila case folder. “Completely contradicted by the swipe records proving you left the prison an hour before, and by the CCTV showing Gambaro in the computer room more than forty minutes after.” His eyes flickered to the rearview, to Joan, and back to the road. “The whole thing smelled like a set-up. Not a single credible witness in the bunch. The Spiteri girl was a mess. ”

Strickland abruptly leaned on the horn. “That Vera Bennett, what a character, eh?” A red Toyota zipped in ahead, cutting them off. “She obviously wanted your job, eh, Governor?” He checked his blind spot and slid into the HOV lane. “Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. She really fucked up, lying about not plastering that picture across your office.” He scoffed. “Destroyed her credibility, the disloyal little shit.” Strickland was not a disloyal person. 

They continued in silence for a minute or two. 

“The bit about the missing pencil, that might have put you away, but for the lie about the posters, and how obvious it was that she was gunning for your job.” Strickland cast a glance over at Joan. “She sunk herself.”

“Thank you, Mr. Strickland. That will suffice.” Joan’s tone was familiar enough to Strickland that he knew to tread carefully. 

He shot a sympathetic look at her. “All right then, Joan,” he soothed. “But it’s all over, now.”

“Yes,” Joan remarked. “It is that.”

“Whole thing came off as a conspiracy against you,” he added. “ _You_ looked like the victim.” 

Joan smiled. 

***


	5. Chapter 5

The call interrupted her meditation as she sat cross-legged on the living room floor. 

“Congratulations on your exoneration.” Channing’s voice was flat. “I’ve canvassed the Board, and I’m confident I can get you back in as Governor. I’ve made it clear to them just how deep the rot went among the officers.” 

But she knew better than to go there. Not now.

“No, thank you, Mr. Channing.” Joan’s voice came cold and crisp across the line. “You’ll find me a Governorship elsewhere, somewhere nice and quiet.” Her eyes pressed shut, the full lips contorting silently. “I think this is a good time for consolidation, don’t you?”

He blathered on for a few more minutes, making blithe promises about some medium security facility in Hobart. She ended the call.

All that work at Blackmoore and Stone Park, ruined. “The Fixer”, indeed. She sighed.

She reflected. Her entire tenure at Wentworth had been one failure after another. She had blinded herself in the war with Smith, got carried away. She couldn’t deny she had made a lot of mistakes. 

No matter, she mused. She had also achieved a significant personal victory. Will Jackson was on remand, awaiting trial for the murder of Harry Smith. Joan felt reasonably confident that he would go down for it. Conviction or not, his career in any sort of position of trust was over. 

And Bea Smith, that humiliating, faithless dog, would have her hands full with Karen Proctor. 

Joan’s lips curled up into a tight smile. Proctor would give Smith a run for her money. Smith would be surrounded by enemies by now. She likely wouldn’t last out the year. 

That would teach Smith to make a fool of Joan Ferguson. 

Her thoughts turned to the psychotic break. The psychiatrist had pointed out that starting work with Will and the parallels between Anderson’s situation and… Jianna’s, would naturally have brought to surface the trauma Joan had spent the last fifteen years trying to repress. Trying to impose order and maintain leadership in the midst of the Will Jackson fiasco, the war with Smith, Fletcher coming at her, her job under threat, and then finally, Vera’s betrayal, what person could have remained psychologically intact? 

But Ferguson knew better. She had been overcome with emotion, and it had led to weakness. That weakness had led to mistakes. She had cracked under the pressure. It _was_ her fault.

The hallucinations were contained, and she was medicated, her stress level tolerable now, but it had been a truly unpleasant reminder of what happened when she lost control. Emotion _was_ weakness. She would have to do better next time. 

Her doorbell rang.

Vera stood at the threshold, wearing her uniform. 

She opened the door. “Vera.” Joan attempted a smile. 

“Hello, Joan.” The pencil skirt again, with black sensible shoes, though Joan noted a higher heel than usual. 

“You didn’t come to visit me again in the ward.” Joan’s voice was even. 

“No.” Vera looked at her feet. The golden crowns stood out mockingly from her black, pressed epaulettes. Joan looked away.

“I was sure you would come again.” Joan’s hair was unbound, strands and her dark blouse billowing in the light breeze. 

“That’s why I didn’t come,” said Vera.

They stared at one another for an awkward moment. 

“Well?” Joan swung the door open, wide. “Are you coming in?”

Joan stood aside and ushered Vera into her home.

***


	6. Chapter 6

“How did you know I wasn’t wearing a wire?” Vera stood across the kitchen island from Joan, who was meticulously slicing tomatoes into pieces of precisely equal thickness.

“Because I know you, Vera,” Joan said, lining up the finished rows of sliced tomatoes perfectly at the edge of the bamboo cutting board.

“How is it that you know me so well, but I can’t understand you?” 

Joan felt a pang of— something—at the naked vulnerability on Vera’s face. The possibilities of that vulnerability were endless.

Even as Governor of Wentworth, Vera Bennett obviously still felt powerless. 

Joan never felt powerless.

“It’s the way I am, Vera,” Joan moved on to the mushrooms. She stopped to pick a black fleck off of one. “You know that.” Tiny rows of mushroom slices stood exactly opposite those of the tomatoes.

“All your charges were dropped.” Vera’s statement sagged into the uncomfortable space between the women. 

Joan laid down the knife. Vera eyed it.

“Yes, of course they were, Vera.” Joan’s hands wide-flanked the cutting board. She looked Vera in the eye. 

Vera stared, open-mouthed.

“You planned it that way,” The blue eyes were bright with astonishment. “You planned it so that you wouldn’t wear it if you got caught.” 

“Obviously, there was a chance I would get caught.” Joan picked up the knife, and started in on the garlic. “The art, Vera, is planning such that there will be no possibility of consequences.” A wave of pungent sweetness burst into the kitchen.

“You’re sick.” Vera spat the words.

The knife came down again. Joan flashed out a hand and grabbed Vera’s bun, pulling her roughly towards her across the island. Vera’s breath came in short pants. 

Joan leaned in. “I know you don’t believe that.” She let the statement sit, waiting for challenge. None came. 

“You liked my methods well enough when you thought they were working for you.” Joan drew Vera further down, towards the countertop. “You wanted to learn them for yourself. You studied them, studied me. You even used them yourself.” Joan hissed into Vera’s ear. “Lucy Gambaro? Pushed her down the stairs, did I?” Vera’s breath stopped. “I saw you on the CCTV leaving the computers with her, Vera. I know it was you.” 

She could see Vera’s pulse racing in the vein along the side of her neck. 

“Even when you realized what I was really doing, you didn’t stop me, Vera,” Joan hissed into Vera’s ear. “You didn’t stop following me around and worshipping me.” “Joan’s tone turned husky. “You protected me. You _enabled me_.”

The verb came out in an enunciated whisper.

“And even now, you can’t stay away from me,” Joan’s mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. “You need me to tell you what to do, because you have no idea how to handle Wentworth.” 

Vera’s mouth worked noiselessly.

“You want me to tell you what to do with yourself.” Joan’s lips grazed Vera’s ear. “You’re lost.” 

She released the younger woman abruptly. “You have no idea how to complete the transformation I started for you.” Joan regarded Vera levelly. “But you want me to continue it now,” She raised herself up to her full height. “To finish it.”

Vera slowly drew herself up from the counter, tears glistening. She covered her face with her hands.

“Come here, Vera.” Joan’s demand filled the kitchen. 

“I…” Vera trailed off. “I… can’t, I shouldn’t, I should… leave.” 

“You won’t leave,” said Joan, simply. “You won’t leave until I tell you that you can leave.” She watched the younger woman flounder, hopelessly caught between the knowledge of what staying meant, and the strong urge to comply with Ferguson’s command. 

“One more time, Vera,” warned Joan. “Come here.” 

A warm ribbon of pleasure uncoiled in Joan’s belly as she saw conflict rage visibly through Vera’s body.

Vera shuffled over to where Joan stood. 

Joan smiled. 

***


	7. Chapter 7

Vera stood wincing, as if she expected Joan to strike her. Her hands were raised to her face, ready to block some imagined, impending blow. 

Instead, Ferguson switched gears.

“I owe you an apology.” Joan gently pried Vera’s hands away from her face. Vera’s eyes were reddened, and the flesh underneath them was puffy. Joan held Vera’s hands in her own, drawing them down into the space separating them.

“Aren’t you worried about germs?” Vera’s mocking eyes flickered to their joined hands.

“No.” 

Vera stared at the floor tiles, confusion writ large on her features. 

“The last time I brought you here, Vera, I was trying to tell you how I felt.” Joan’s voice was so quiet that Vera had to strain a little to hear it. “But I bungled it. Before I could get the words out, I did something to you that was… unforgivable.” Joan’s thumbs ran lightly back and forth across the backs of Vera’s fingers. The gesture recalled for both the moment that night when Joan had awkwardly covered Vera’s hand with her own. Joan’s thumb had traced a similar path then, too.

“You told me about the hepatitis, and I pulled my hand away,” Joan continued the touch. After a long moment, she lifted Vera’s hands up to Joan’s own face.

“You rejected me.” Vera didn’t look up. 

“I know you thought that.” Joan placed Vera’s palms flat against Joan’s cheeks, covered them with her own hands. “It’s not what I intended.” Vera’s head came up. She tilted her face towards Joan’s; tears again glistened in the blue eyes.

“I do have a… disorder, Vera,” the words came with obvious difficulty. “You caught me completely by surprise.” Joan’s eyes closed for a moment. She breathed deeply. “I didn’t want you to leave. I didn’t want you to leave me.” The exhalation was slow and controlled. “I don’t know why I let you leave.” She opened her eyes, looking right at Vera. “I should have…called you back.”

They stared at one another. Joan shifted her weight. 

“I’ve never felt so dead inside as I did that night, Joan.” A stillness descended over Vera’s features. “I thought you’d brought me to your home to say you were sorry, for the riot. I thought you were finally going to tell me that I meant something to you.” The voice was deliberate. 

“You did mean something to me.” Joan’s hands dropped to her sides. “You still do.” She paused, looked away. 

Vera released Joan’s face.

The faint sound outside of a rattling muffler came and went.

“I don’t understand why I’m still here, Joan, after the things you’ve done.” Little furrows crept across Vera’s forehead. 

“Yes, you do.” Joan leaned her frame against the countertop. 

“I can’t forgive you, Joan.” 

Joan met her eyes. After a moment, Vera looked away.

Joan picked up the knife and resumed chopping garlic. “Well, I’ve forgiven you, Vera.” The fingers moved quickly across the cloves, feeding each into the methodical movements of the blade. She felt Vera’s eyes on her, through the rest of the garlic and into the onion. 

Vera broke into a chuckle, then a guffaw. She bent over and rested her elbows on the counter. The small shoulders heaved silently. 

“Vera?” Joan halted the blade’s motion. A finely sculpted brow arched. “Are you quite alright?”

Vera, doubled over with laughter, turned and sagged slowly down, against the cupboards, to sit on the cold floor, knees hugged to her chest. Her hand reached back and released her hair from its tight bun. She ran her hand through her hair and sat on the floor, elbow to knee, head cocked to one side, supported in her palm.

“You’ve forgiven me.” The expression held part amusement, part amazement. She shook her head. With no small hint of sarcasm, she continued. “Well _thank you_ , Joan.” 

Joan stared curiously. “I presume you’re staying for dinner, then?”

***


	8. Chapter 8

Steam roiled off the pasta as Joan drained it into the colander. A small saucepan on the range bubbled lightly. Rich, earthy aromas filled the kitchen.

“Get a bottle of red out, will you?” Joan, a tea towel over her shoulder, recoiled from the wave of wet heat rising from the sink.

“Where’s your wine stash?” Vera’s voice floated over from the living room. 

“Sideboard, to the right of the telly.” Joan piled pasta onto two identical, black plates, ladling chunky sauce over the top of each. She looked up to see Vera emerge from the living room, two bottles of wine in her right hand. The jacket was gone, the starched white shirt had come un-tucked, and the black tie lolled about Vera’s neck, the top button un-done. Her feet were positively swimming in Joan’s house slippers. 

“Cold feet, Vera?” Joan’s lips curved upwards. She rounded the kitchen island and approached the dining room table, a plate in each hand. Her eyebrows arched as she gazed pointedly at the slippers. 

“Nice one.” Vera’s smile transformed her face, framed as it was by the flowing brown hair.

She’s beautiful, thought Joan.

Vera deposited the bottles between the two place settings. “I couldn’t decide between the Bannockburn 2013 pinot and the Greenock Creek 2012 shiraz,” she slipped into the seat by the window. “And to be honest, we’ll probably need both.”

The first half of the dinner passed in silence. 

“What will you do, now?” Vera broke the stillness. “Will you come back as Governor?” She raised her glass and gulped the pinot. The fingers holding the glass trembled almost imperceptibly. 

Joan saw it. 

So, Vera was willing to step aside for her. She would relinquish power, offer up to Joan the position she had wanted for years. 

So weak, Ferguson thought. Ferguson would never relinquish her power. Not to Vera, or anybody else.

“No.” Joan lifted her own, full glass to her lips. The smooth shiraz flowed down her throat, leaving a gentle velvet burn in its wake. She replaced the glass, her motions deliberate. “I’ll take a Governorship somewhere else. Hobart, probably.” 

“Hobart?” Vera drained her glass. “That’s ages away.” 

Joan reached over and refilled Vera’s glass with the rest of the pinot. “Goodness, Vera, you’re parched.” She smiled pleasantly at the younger woman.

“The only other women’s prison in Victoria is a state-run facility.” Joan forked a mouthful of pasta into her mouth. “I won’t be a civil servant.” She took another bite. “Too restrictive.” 

They shared a knowing look. 

“What about a men’s prison?” Vera’s plate was still nearly full. Her glass, on the other hand, had seen considerable action over the last half hour. “There’s obviously no reason a woman can’t be Governor of a men’s facility.”

“Not a chance.” Joan’s lips curled in distaste. She took a sip of shiraz.

“Ah, right,” Vera nodded. “You don’t like men.” 

“Vera,” Joan warned. “Don’t go there.” 

Vera’s eyes flashed sudden anger. “Who’s going where? How the hell can you mentor me all the way from Hobart?” 

Joan laid down her fork and gazed directly at Vera.

Vera shifted uncomfortably in her chair. 

“So, you _do_ want me to continue my…mentorship of you, do you, Vera?” Notwithstanding two glasses of wine, Joan’s eyes remained clear. A hint of amusement played across her lips. 

Vera said nothing. 

Joan sipped again, her eyes never leaving Vera’s.

“I presume from the fact that you’re here tonight that you’re no longer in a relationship with Mr. Fletcher.” Joan’s voice was neutral. 

“No.” Vera looked away.

“Why not?” An artificial note had crept into Joan’s tone.

“Jesus, Joan.” Vera got up from her seat. “You’re not very subtle sometimes.” She snatched the empty pinot bottle from the table. “More wine, okay?”

Joan nodded. “Help yourself.”

***


	9. Chapter 9

Another hour, eclectic conversation, and another bottle of pinot later, Vera rose to clear the table.

And abruptly sat back down in her chair. “Oh, dear,” there was a slight slur in Vera’s speech. “I’m a bit drunk.”

Joan laughed. “You drank two bottles of wine, of course you’re drunk.” She stood and began to clear the plates away. “Don’t worry about clearing the table. Go sit in the living room while I finish up here.” 

Vera ambled uncertainly into the living room.

Joan made short work of the dinner dishes. After a few minutes, she sauntered into the living room, wine glass in hand.

Vera was sat on the settee, her legs curled up underneath her. 

Joan surveyed the scene. Vera’s settee was an uncomfortably small loveseat. The only other seating option was the three-seater couch, positioned awkwardly far away from where Vera was ensconced. Joan internally cursed herself for her shortsighted furniture choices. 

She sat on the couch.

“Joan, don’t be ridiculous, come sit over here with me.” Drunk Vera was a lot more assertive than sober Vera. She patted the seat next to her. “I don’t want to have to shout across the room.”

“Considering our dinner conversation, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.” Joan made her way over to the settee and settled into the vacant spot.

“What, the wrong idea about you, or the wrong idea about you and I?” Vera, emboldened by two bottles of pinot noir, was on a roll.

Joan sighed. “I don’t think my… _orientation_ is any of your business, Vera.” 

Vera stared, expectantly. A whole minute crept by. 

Joan sighed. “I’m not gay.”

“You’re not gay.” Vera’s expression was amused disbelief. “Okay, you’re not gay.” She grinned into her glass. 

Joan rolled her eyes. “I’m not gay, Vera, I’m… complicated.”

“Complicated, right, I think I’ve heard that before.”

“So in your mind, I’m an evil, psychopathic lesbian, then?” Joan’s usually straight face broke into a wide grin. “And you still came over?”

They giggled together.

“I’m not gay, either.”

“I didn’t imply you were.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No.”

“Then why wouldn’t I dine with you tonight if I were in a relationship with a man?”

“Not ‘a man’, Vera. Mr. Fletcher.” Joan’s tongue struggled not to spit out the name. “The man I arranged to have killed.”

“Oh. Right.” A flush crept up Vera’s neck. “I wouldn’t dine with my boyfriend’s killer.”

“I’d imagine not.”

“God, I’m sorry,” Vera’s screwed up her face into an embarrassed cringe. She covered her forehead with her palm. “I’m such an idiot.”

“Relax, Vera,” Joan smiled wryly as she took a generous mouthful of her wine. “I’m not trying to… _seduce_ you.” There was an unpracticed enunciation on the word. She swallowed.

“Well, I think it’s bloody clear that you’ve already _seduced_ me in every other sense of the word,” Vera said drily. 

Something in Joan’s eyes made her stop.

“Well, what are you, then?” Vera clapped her hand over her mouth. “God, I’m sorry.” She pitched forward a little. “I’m just so curious.”

“Curious,” Joan repeated slowly. “Interesting choice of word.” She brought her glass up to her lips without drinking. She replaced it on a coaster on the coffee table. 

A flash of inspiration crossed Vera’s tipsy features. “Christ, you use innuendo to dominate in conversations!” She was obviously proud of herself. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.”

Joan smiled.

Good girl, she thought.

“I’m always on my back foot, talking with you,” Vera mused. “But it’s not all innuendo, so there’s obviously more to it.”

Joan was silent for a moment. “There are hundreds of ways to dominate people, Vera.” The former Governor’s dark eyes held a captivating intensity. 

Vera shifted her legs out from underneath her small body. 

After a moment, “Why did you hate Fletch so much?”

“Mr. Fletcher is a stupid, bellicose Neanderthal. He raped that prisoner, participated in sexually exploiting those parolees.” She leaned forward and lifted her glass from the coffee table. “He openly threatened me, and worked to undermine my key alliance.” 

“With me,” Vera nodded.

“And you were far too fond of him,” Joan added.

“So, you were jealous.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. Not ‘jealous’, exactly. Protective.”

“Protective of your… property. You saw me as your property.”

Joan said nothing.

Vera’s eyes widened. “You still feel that way!”

“You’re not ‘property’, Vera.”

“Don’t dodge the question. You say that, and maybe you even think it, but it’s obvious that you don’t _feel_ it.” She put a hand on Joan’s knee. “You _feel_ that I’m your property.”

“Yes,” Joan said simply. 

Each watched the other for a long moment.

Joan moved her knee out from under Vera’s hand. “Now let’s go to bed, shall we?”

“With each other?” Vera waggled her eyebrows comically.

They laughed together. 

Joan stood, held her hand out to help Vera from the settee. “You’re a quick study, but you need more practice.” She pulled Vera to her feet. “You can practice on me,” she deadpanned. 

Vera laughed. “You win.” 

“Come on, you can have my spare room.” The tall woman led the smaller up the stairs. “You’re going to feel ghastly tomorrow morning.”

Vera groaned.

At the top of the stairs, Vera abruptly stopped. Joan turned, a question on her face. “Vera? What’s wrong?” She stepped towards the slightly swaying form, reaching out a hand to steady her.

Vera’s eyes glinted up in the dimness. “I still hate you.” She paused. “Just, less.”

Joan nodded slowly. “First door on the left.” She gestured to the guest bedroom. “Fresh towels are in the bathroom. Help yourself to anything you want for breakfast.” She turned and disappeared through the doorway at the end of the hall.

***

Ferguson lay back, mentally surveying the events of the evening.

Things had gone far, far better than she had anticipated. Probably a result of all the careful groundwork laid over the past two years, she mused. 

But she would have to be absolutely sure this time. There was no more margin for error.

Last time, she had underestimated Vera’s desperation for an emotional connection. That mistake had been a chink in her armor, a chink the Neanderthal had been quick to exploit. He had moved in to fill the void, and it had cost Ferguson the game.

No, not the game, she corrected herself. Just the round.

She reached over and switched off the lamp.

***


	10. Chapter 10

Vera had never been in a more luxurious shower: spacious, with double showerheads, both fully adjustable, glass dual-swing door and even a bench. Hot water blasted her chest and her thighs simultaneously as she worked conditioner through her long hair.

She vomited, roundly.

“Shit!” Vera fell to her knees and tried to prevent chunks of tomato and onion from entering the shower drain. 

She managed to work a foot over the drain while she stood up, searching for something she could use to clean up the mess.

A white washcloth lay just out of reach on the outside door of the shower. Vera reached for it, desperately, her foot inching perilously off the drain. A nugget of tomato escaped and was sucked down.

“Oh, my God.” Vera snatched the washcloth and threw it over the drain. Rapidly, a thin soup of tomato-onion-mushroom-wine began rising from the floor of the shower. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

She quickly finished rinsing her hair out and turned off the water. The soup drained away excruciatingly slowly.

Vera exited the shower and toweled off. She managed to excavate the bits from the shower with an embarrassingly large wad of toilet paper, which thankfully she was able to flush without a scandalous number of attempts. She hosed down the stall, erasing the remaining evidence.

She twisted her hair into a tight French bun, and stepped into her clothes from yesterday. Amazingly, they were still presentable. 

When she came down the stairs, Joan was sitting at the breakfast table, an amused expression on her face. “Hungry, Vera?” She pushed a plate of bacon, eggs and toast in her direction.

“Oh, fuck no,” said Vera. “But thank you.” 

Joan laughed.

“Did you sleep alright?” Joan nonchalantly pushed her eggs about her plate. “I thought I heard you cry out a few times.”

The younger woman’s foot faltered on the bottom step, but she caught herself and averted a wipeout. “Yes, thanks,” She walked over to the plate and gingerly picked up a piece of brown toast. She nibbled a corner before replacing it. “Oh my God,” she wobbled, steadying herself on the table.

Joan was quickly at her side. “Poor Vera,” she turned the young woman towards her. “Drank too much wine.” Joan’s tone was gently mocking, as she tightened Vera’s tie and brushed toast crumbs off the jacket lapel. Her fingers traced the gold crown epaulettes. “You look… “ Vera looked up at her. “Sharp,” she finished. 

“Thanks.” Vera brushed past Joan and grabbed her phone and keys from the entranceway sideboard. “I’m going to be late for work.” She slipped her feet into her heels and reached for the door. 

“Vera?” Joan’s voice was husky.

Vera looked over her shoulder.

“Come back soon.” 

Vera left.

***


	11. Chapter 11

She couldn’t concentrate. Her head pounded and her guts roiled. She vomited again, twice, in her private bathroom. A pity, she thought. That sauce had really been delicious on the way down.

She thought back to the ridiculous things she had said to Joan last night, and cringed. 

Her face burned to recall her childish inquisitions into Joan’s sexual preferences. She literally kicked herself under the wide desk. “Idiot!” she hissed out loud.

“Yes, Governor?” Her assistant’s voice floated through the half-closed door.

“It’s alright, Jen,” called Vera, “ Her voice was falsely bright. “I was just talking to myself.” 

She got up from the desk, walked over and closed the heavy door.

Sexual preferences. Vera’s thoughts were drawn to Fletch. She recalled his face as he had stroked her hair; she recalled the feeling of him inside her. A glow spread across her belly. 

Clumsy as it had been, she had wanted it. She had really, really wanted it. And she had enjoyed it. It had been physically uncomfortable, but satisfying too. 

But then he had raped that prisoner. He and Channing had prostituted those poor parolees. He had collaborated with Bea Smith to frame Vera for the poster incident and to bring down Joan, and presumably her, too. 

No, obviously, he had just wanted the Governorship, and had enlisted her as a pawn. 

He had used her. She hadn’t meant anything to him. He had fucked her, and then thrown her away. Obviously, he just got off on sexually exploiting women. She’d been played. Laid and played, she thought wryly.

A second thought came, unbidden: Joan had used her, too, if in a different way. But Joan hadn’t thrown her away afterwards. Joan had attacked her, but only because she had thought Vera had attacked her first, with something incredibly personal. She thought that Vera had joined the mutineers. And, to be fair, Joan had been right about the latter.

She had misjudged Joan and Fletcher both. And Bea Smith, too. Bea Smith had tried to eliminate her.

She closed her laptop, straightened her jacket, and strode out of the office. 

***

Joan unboxed the Nokia burner phone and activated it. She quickly dialed the number Strickland had given her.

“ABC Trucking Company, how can I help you?” A deep, gravelly voice answered.

“It’s me.” Ferguson’s voice came low.

“I heard you were in the clear.” Jesper’s eastern European rasp grated her ear. It reminded her a little of her father.

“Thanks to your discretion,” she said. “Strickland tells me that the barrister I arranged was of great assistance to you.” 

“She was really good. Got them to drop the aggravated, with two years suspended sentence on burglary and assault.”

Joan’s eyebrows raised. “That’s unbelievable.” She shifted the phone away from her ear, leaning down to pick up from the floor the pantyhose that Vera had apparently forgotten about this morning. “She must have worked something from the inside.”

“Yeah, pitched it as the ‘desperate act of a drug addict’, no weapon, and asked for a rehabilitation order.” He chuckled. “30 days in a residential program, no problem, nice vacation.” 

Joan deposited the pantyhose into the washer. “How are the legs?” 

“I got lucky. The right, soft tissue damage only. The left, permanent nerve damage.”

“I owe you, Nils.”

Silence. “Yeah, you owe me pretty big, little Ferguson.”

“Saturday. Same time, same place.” Ferguson ended the call.

***

The door clicked shut behind her. Vera deposited her keys and phone on the stand in the hallway and made her way into the kitchen.

The stale yellow lights highlighted how drab and dated was the décor. It hadn’t been updated since they moved in when she was a girl. 

The whole house reminded her of her mother. She hated it.

Vera tugged off her tie, tossing it onto the floor. Small shoulders shrugged out of the uniform jacket; she threw it on top of the tie. She looked down at where the clothes now lay in a heap on the worn linoleum. It seemed significant, somehow, a small act of defiance against everything that was wrong in her life.

She was the Governor of Wentworth Correctional Facility, and she still felt like a lost little girl.

Except when she was with Joan.

Joan was, by far, the most domineering person Vera had met in her life. And yet, Vera had felt freer under Joan’s influence than she had ever felt before. Joan had demonstrated—embodied, even—what power looked like, and had made Vera feel that she, too, could be powerful. 

Feeling powerful was something she had never experienced around anyone else.

Vera desperately wanted to feel that way again. 

She removed the rest of her uniform and added it to the pile. She padded over to the fridge and foraged for some bland scraps, and ate them cold while standing in her underwear in the middle of the kitchen. When she was finished, she dumped the empty containers into the sink.

Vera deliberately left the kitchen light on, brushed her teeth and fell into bed.

She would show Joan what a good student she could be.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to predatoryfox for an excellent Nils-Joan backstory in Emotion Leads to Mistakes, which backstory I have impliedly/tangentially referred to here. Check it out: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4677578/chapters/10676756


	12. Chapter 12

Vera opened the door, schooling her face into a mask of authority. “Jen, have Karen Proctor brought in to me.” 

“Yes, Governor.”

Ten minutes later, Miles escorted Proctor into the office.

Vera gestured at the chair across from her. “Take a seat, Proctor.” 

Proctor sat.

“Do you know who lagged on you?” Vera turned in her chair to face the inmate. Vera had arranged her chair such that the Wentworth crest would appear exactly above her head to a seated visitor. Sometimes, one had to be creative in order to make being short work to one’s advantage.

Proctor stared at her. “You’re kidding, right?” The thin blue eyes regarded her incredulously. “I’m not lagging, not even on a lagger.”

“No, I’m not kidding, Proctor.” The Governor leaned forward in her chair. “You see, I already know who lagged on you, and I just might be willing to share that information.” She rested her elbows on the desk, steepled her fingers and stared levelly at the blonde woman. 

“I know who it was.” Proctor leaned back, crossing her arms. “But why do _you_ care?” 

Vera concealed her bitter disappointment. “Well,” Vera turned away and began pecking at the desktop computer keyboard. “I suppose we have nothing to talk about, then.”

“Wait.” Proctor had an electric intensity about her. “If you know who it is, and you wanted me to know, then you must actually want me to…” Vera cut her off with an abrupt gesture. 

“Stop,” Vera commanded. “Don’t say… those things out loud.” She swiveled back to face the prisoner. 

Vagueness and plausible deniability, both lessons she had learned from Joan.

“Don’t give her the usual lagger treatment.” Vera glanced at the door. 

Proctor looked at her quizzically. “You must not understand how this works, Governor. I can’t let her get away with what she did. She needs to pay the price, and I need to be seen to be the one exacting it.” 

Vera resumed leaning on the desk. It was completely clear, except for a black telephone.

“Proctor, have you ever seen what happens to an antelope that’s been separated from the herd by a predator?” Vera’s steely eyes fastened on the woman before her. 

Proctor stared quizzically.

“You just isolate her from her crew, and let nature take its course.” 

Kaz looked doubtful. 

“Put it about that you planned it that way. Humiliating _and_ effective, with the added bonus of clean hands.” Vera cocked her head. “I’m sure you’ve heard about how Smith’s masterful escape plan affected her reputation.”

Vera felt the prod hit home.

The blonde woman nodded slowly. “It’s a good idea, but a big ask. What’s exactly in it for me?” 

“That depends what you want,” Vera leaned back in her chair.

Proctor stood up. She paced over to the window. “The whole reason I’m in here is because one of the women told the police that she heard me admit to being a member of Red Right Hand,” She gazed out over the exercise yard. “And that she had a letter in her possession in here, written by me, which corroborated it.” Down below, tiny teal forms swarmed in the midday sun.

“On the basis of that tip, they searched my house, where they found some… _allegedly_ incriminating things.” Sun streaming through the window accentuated the thin lines etched around her cold, blue eyes. 

“They couldn’t get a warrant for the search because the word of one prisoner alone wasn’t enough to go on,” she continued. “And because the prison was literally in the middle of burning down, nobody was available to produce the letter, although the Governor had confirmed earlier that day that it had been located and stored in the prison safe.”

Vera nodded. “Fireproof, unfortunately for you. Though, we haven’t sorted through all that material from the old prison yet. The letter’s probably downstairs.” She gazed pointedly at Proctor.

Proctor faced the Governor, crossed her arms. “Unless the Crown can produce that letter, the judge is going to rule that the search of my house was illegal, and the evidence collected at my house will be excluded.”

“They’ll be counting on having that letter at the trial.” Vera nodded. “No letter, no conviction.” 

“Exactly.” 

“Well, Proctor,” Vera stood and straightened her black jacket. “Obviously, I would _never_ participate in the destruction of evidence in an ongoing criminal investigation, which is what, I presume, you’re implying.” 

The two women regarded one another. 

“You can go now,” Vera nodded at the door. 

Outside, the dull thump of a basketball on a backboard preceded a raucous cheer.

“Good hunting, Proctor.” 

Thin lips drew together in a shrewd smile as Kaz Proctor started towards the door.

“Oh, one more thing, Proctor.” 

Kaz turned.

“You can tell the women whatever you want, but when the time comes, it’s to be made clear to her who’s behind this.” Vera’s blue eyes narrowed. “And I don’t mean you.”

The blonde woman nodded and let herself out. 

We'll see who eliminates whom, Vera thought.

***


	13. Chapter 13

A buzzing jolted Vera out of her reverie. She looked down at her iPhone on the desk to the far left of the keyboard. A green speech bubble had popped up. The little screen’s glow created a cone of light in the otherwise dim office. The only other light was Vera’s desk lamp. 

_Working a double?_

The corners of her lips turned upwards as she reached for the device.

 _No, just finishing some paperwork._ She hit send.

She leaned back in her chair and stared expectantly at the phone.

_Come here for dinner. I am making streak._  
_Streak_  
_Duck steak_  
_Duck_  
_FUCK_  
_This new iPhone is frustrating_

Vera laughed out loud. With practiced thumbs, she quickly wrote: _Your fingers are just clumsy with it. I’ll teach you how to do it properly._

She grinned to herself.

_Not bad, Vera._ And a moment later: _See you soon._

Vera switched off the little desk lamp, grabbed her bag and left.

***

She hesitated when she got to the door. Maybe she should have changed first. 

Too late now, she thought. Her hands clutched her bag.

She knocked. 

Joan opened the door holding a glass of wine. 

Vera eyed the wine. “Oh my God,” she made a face. “I can’t even look at that.” 

Joan laughed. “Come in.” She stepped back. 

As she entered, Vera was assaulted by an aromatic wave. “Oh, duck steak?” She placed her bag and phone on the hallstand. “One of my favourites.”

Joan shot her a bemused look. “Almost ready,” she whisked into the kitchen, parked her wine, snatched an oven mitt, and bent down to remove a cast iron pan from the oven. “Make yourself at home. There’s vodka in the freezer, if you like.”

Vera wandered into the living room. She sat on the couch. Clattering noises drifted in from the kitchen. She picked lint off her skirt. 

She gazed around. A black bookcase on the far wall housed a few rows of obviously well-loved books. Vera strolled over to the case; she recognized a few of the titles. _The Remains of the Day. Robinson Crusoe. The Catcher in the Rye._ She ran her fingers over the hard covers. _Crime and Punishment._

“Dinner’s ready.” The voice came from immediately behind her.

Vera jumped. “Jesus!” She turned.

Joan wore a slight smile. “There’s a bit of a theme there,” she nodded at the bookcase. 

“I didn’t know you liked to read,” Vera looked down at the tall glass of vodka tonic Joan was pressing into her hand. “Your office was so… stark, it was hard to imagine you with any… hobbies.” She took the glass, gesturing with it towards the last book. “I’ve never been a fan of Russian literature. The books are so long, the writing so dense, that I just can’t get through it.” She took a sip. Her nose wrinkled.

“Russian works do tend to be rather detailed,” Joan fingered the cracked spine. “They take patience, but full appreciation of their intricacy is its own reward.” She nodded towards the dining room. “Come eat.”

Vera followed Joan to the table. Two places were set, one at the head of the table, one at the side. Plates were piled with what looked to be a painstakingly prepared meal. “This looks fantastic.” She paused, unsure of the etiquette around this type of seating arrangement.

Joan sat down at the side. Relieved, Vera slid into the other spot. 

The women started in on the meal.

“So, how are things at Wentworth?” Joan’s tone was pleasant. She took a bite of quinoa salad. 

“Good, so far,” Vera sliced a small piece off her steak. “I hired someone to replace Will, seeing as the trial won’t be for another six months.” She chewed for a moment, swallowing before continuing. “New bloke is a bit green, but that’s how we all start out.” She put down her knife and sipped her drink. “We’re still understaffed by one, but Fletch… Mr. Fletcher, is coming back tomorrow.” 

Joan lay down her fork. “You’re letting Fletcher return to Wentworth?” She stared across the table at the younger woman. 

Vera fixed her eyes on a green bean that she began pushing around her plate. “Well, I can’t keep him away,” she speared it, feeling dark eyes on her face. “His doctor cleared it, and I’ve got no proof of any wrongdoing.” She raised the fork to her mouth. “That CCTV doesn’t prove he had sex with Warner.”

“Vera, you can’t have a man who rapes prisoners under your command.” Joan leaned forward. “You _need_ to get rid of him.” She brought her wine glass to her lips and drank. “He’s a liability.” 

“A liability to you, you mean,” Vera calmly speared another bean. She looked up and met Joan’s eyes. The small chin came up. 

“And to you, too.” Joan’s tone was matter-of-fact. “If he victimizes another prisoner—or officer, for that matter—“ she gave Vera a pointed look “—on your watch, your career in corrections will certainly be over.” Joan shook her head. “With his record, the incident with the swipe card, the CCTV, the fact of your ongoing sexual relationship with him—” 

“It wasn’t ongoing.” Vera interrupted.

“Oh, well, that’s your business, Vera,” Joan awkwardly started in on her steak. “You can have… relationships… with whomever you please.” The hand holding the knife worked quickly back and forth. “I simply meant that—”

Vera cut in again. “I wouldn’t have had sex with anyone after my diagnosis, Joan,” she calmly put down her utensils. “ _I_ wouldn’t endanger anyone like that.” Vera’s face was unnaturally still. She stared at her glass. After a moment, she raised it to her lips and took a long pull.

An uncomfortable silence hung about the table. 

“Hepatitis C isn’t transmitted by the uh, usual sexual activity.” Joan’s voice was curiously neutral. “In some cases, with certain high-risk types of intercourse, where there is significant likelihood of blood-to-blood contact, there can be transmission of the disease.” Joan watched the younger woman’s face carefully before continuing. “So, unless your, uh, tastes range much farther from what I would expect, Vera, sexual transmission is extraordinarily unlikely.” She jabbed at a morsel of steak. “After decades of working in prisons,” she popped it in her mouth. “One learns a little about hepatitis C.”

Vera stared straight ahead. There was a sadness to her expression.

“You didn’t know that.” Joan put down her utensils. 

“No.” 

“Isn’t it good news?” Joan reached out and covered the younger woman’s hand. “You seem upset.”

“It’s good news.” Vera’s voice quavered. 

So much emotion, Joan thought. She wondered what it was like, walking around, day in, day out, with all of that just jumbling around uncontained. 

“I just thought…” Vera trailed off. “After I was diagnosed, I thought I would never…be with anyone again.” Tears appeared in her eyes. “I guess this is a relief, but now I just feel…” she leaned her cheek into her free palm, resting an elbow on the table.

Long moments passed. Joan didn’t push. 

“A lot has happened,” Vera released her cheek, brought her other hand down to rest atop Joan’s. “It’s really confusing.” She looked away. 

Joan forced herself to sit completely still, practically holding her breath. This was an incredibly delicate moment that required precision handling. 

But something niggled in her gut. She shut it down; now was definitely not the time to become distracted.

Vera continued. “When Fletch and I were… intimate, I felt…” She stopped. “I don’t mean about the sex part. I mean, the… other part. I don’t know. The whole thing.” She dropped her head forward. “And now, looking back, realizing it was just a game for him, that he was just…” She raised her eyes to Joan’s. “I feel a bit empty.”

Joan let the statement marinate for a moment. Then, she went for it.

“Sex can create a special emotional bond.” She squeezed Vera’s hand. “You felt it with him, but it wasn’t reciprocated.” 

“I didn’t know sex could do that.” 

“No?”

“Well, it was… “ she stopped. “Fuck.” She flushed. 

Joan understood. 

A flash of white-hot anger took Joan by surprise. She clamped down on it. She made a mental note to add extra unpleasantness to Fletcher’s punishment.

“It was your first time.” Joan’s voice was husky.

Vera nodded. 

“I’ve thought this whole time that that was it.” Vera studied the ceiling. “That _that_ was my lot, that I’d never get a chance to feel that again, with somebody who felt the same about me.” A tear rolled down Vera’s cheek. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, this is really embarrassing,” she brushed the tear away roughly. “I don’t even know why I’m saying all this.”

God, it would be so easy, Joan thought. 

“Considering what we already know about one another, I think it’s safe to assume that you can tell me anything, Vera.” Joan’s lips curved upwards. She lifted her hand to the younger woman’s cheek, smoothing the wetness away with her fingertips. 

Vera studied Joan’s face. 

She’s beautiful, thought Vera.

“You’re beautiful,” Vera said, aloud.

Joan started, caught herself quickly. Dark eyes wide, lips slightly parted, she stared at Vera. Her mind raced to think of an appropriate response. 

This was happening too fast. The niggling feeling returned with a vengeance. 

Vera sighed. “I’m drunk again,” she gestured at her empty glass. “How much was in that thing?” 

“A lot,” admitted Joan. “You shouldn’t drive. Do you want to stay here again tonight, or shall I drive you home?” She schooled her features, holding the blue eyes levelly with her own.

Conflict whisked over Vera’s face. “I don’t think my staying is a good idea.” 

Joan said nothing.

“So, obviously, I’ll stay.”

***


	14. Chapter 14

“No, let me, Joan,” Vera pushed Joan’s hand away from the empty plate. She stood up and started collecting the dinner dishes from the table. “I’m not so drunk that I have to let you do all the cleaning again.” She carried a load into the kitchen, depositing it in the sink. “Thank you for dinner. You’re a terrific cook.”

Joan waved it off. “You’re welcome.” She stood. “Come on, I’ll help.” She started towards the kitchen.

Vera shook her head. Her eyes were still red. “Actually, to be honest, I’d like to be alone for a bit.” She turned on the hot water and opened the dishwasher. “Anyway, you probably have things you’d like to be doing.” 

Joan hesitated. Either Vera had suddenly got a lot better at their innuendo game, or she was less aware of what was going on than Joan had surmised. 

She shot a glance over at Vera, but she was already busy rinsing plates and loading them into the dishwasher.

Joan exhaled slowly. So, Vera’s unexpected comment at the dinner table had not come from a place of self-awareness. 

“I’ll put more towels in your room for you.” She headed up the stairs. 

***

Ferguson sat on her bed, reclining against the headboard. She closed her eyes and mentally went over every aspect of the evening. 

She breathed deeply, in and out, organizing and calming her thoughts. In another few days, she reflected, the fruit would be ready for harvest. Vera was signaling just the right level of trust and willingness to emotional intimacy, but at the moment she was too focused on fulfilling her own emotional needs. 

Joan folded her hands neatly into her lap. Only when she was focused on fulfilling Ferguson’s needs, even at the expense of her own, would Vera be ripe for the plucking. 

She exhaled, slowly. If she executed now, the bond could crystallize around feelings of intimacy, not subordination.

The damned gut twinge again. 

Joan inhaled, letting herself float in calmness.

Control of self begins with control of breath, she repeated.

First, she would utterly disgrace the Neanderthal. Career ruin wasn’t enough for that piece of human excrement. Her lips tightened. She would make sure he faced criminal charges for the Warner matter, including collaboration on the ‘theft’ of the swipe card. 

She forced her body to relax. 

Once the Neanderthal was totally neutralized, she would finally destroy Smith, expose that hypocrite Westfall, and then—

The bedroom door slowly opened. Joan’s eyes flew open and she jerked upright. 

Vera stood at the threshold. 

She had taken off her jacket and tie. Her white collared shirt was open to several buttons, exposing a slim, white neck. The shirt had come un-tucked at the back. Her feet were bare. 

Joan swiveled her legs off the bed and planted her feet on the hardwood. Her long hair was gathered into a loose ponytail at the base of her neck. An open-necked, dark blouse disappeared over black jeans. 

“Vera,” Joan warned. “Don’t come in here.” 

Vera leaned against the doorway. Brown hair fell in waves over her shoulders, here and there revealing a glimpse of the black epaulettes with their bright golden crowns. 

“Fuck you, Joan.”

Joan stared. “What?” Her brow wrinkled. 

“Fuck you.” 

“I heard that part,” Joan remarked coolly. “Do you have something else to say, or is this a… drive-by?” 

“Why did you invite me over tonight?” Vera crossed her arms. There was something dangerous in her tone. “Why am I here?”

“You didn’t want to come?” Joan’s voice was level. “Why did you come to see me in the… ward?” She kept her dark eyes unreadable. 

“Don’t. Don’t do your clever little dodging thing.” Vera straightened. “I know what you’re doing.” She put her hands on her hips.

The posture was oddly provocative. 

Joan shook her head. “No, you don’t.” 

“I realized downstairs that you’re fucking with me. You’re manipulating me again.” Vera tilted her head down, eyeing Joan. “You want me to destroy Fletcher.” 

“I said as much straight out, Vera.” Joan carefully kept her tone even. “You’re not giving me much credit if you think that’s my idea of manipulating you.” The corner of Joan’s mouth curled up. 

Vera said nothing.

Joan pushed. “You’re here because you’re a moth to flame, Vera.”

It was too far.

Vera’s head snapped up. “Flame?” Her mouth dropped open. “Is that what you are?”

Joan said nothing, her features impassive.

Vera’s voice got louder. “A flame, eh?” She laughed humorlessly. “You got that right.”

She looked Joan right in the eye. “Well, I’m burning up, Joan.” She was livid. She hiked her skirt, bent forward and reached underneath, and in one smooth motion, pulled down her underwear and stepped out of it. “Be careful what you wish for.” 

Joan felt her eyes widen and her mouth involuntarily drop open. 

A riot erupted in her belly. Desperately, she clamped down, with little effect.

Vera casually tossed her underwear away. “You had at least one relationship with a woman, and men clearly revolt you, but you say you’re ‘not gay’.” Her smoky eyes locked on Joan’s with a fierce intensity. 

Joan cleared her throat. She opened her mouth to say something, but Vera cut her off with a gesture.

“You fuck with my mind mercilessly, but you say you aren’t trying to _seduce_ me." Vera’s voice came low and heated.

Vera took a very deliberate step into the room. 

Oh shit, thought Joan. 

Joan leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. She brought a hand to her face, two fingers lightly covering her lips, schooling her face to detachment. She felt her pulse racing wildly. 

“You confess that you feel you _own_ me, but you say I can have relationships with whomever I please.” 

Joan sat silently, her eyes on Vera’s face. She clasped her hands together in front of her open knees. Her heart hammered in her chest.

“You drop sexual innuendo and send all kinds of inviting signals, but you say I can’t come in your bedroom.” She took another step forward. 

“Do you ever say what you really mean?”

Ferguson’s mind raced. There was no way Vera, in her present state, could handle being rejected. Not in this. Not after what she’d revealed at dinner. 

“One second, you’re cold, the next, hot.” Vera regarded Joan brazenly. 

If she refused this overture, it would be game over. Vera would pull away, permanently, and all Joan’s careful work would go to waste. 

She tried to focus on her breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth. 

“Hot.” Vera stepped forward. “Cold.” Another step. “Hot.” Step. She was less than two feet away. 

Joan would have to go through with it now; she’d painted herself into a corner. 

Vera reached down and brushed her fingers across Joan’s lips. A light pink flush spread across the younger woman’s cheeks and neck. “I know you have feelings for me, Joan.” 

Joan didn’t dare look away, lest Vera interpret it as rejection. She leaned backwards slightly and rested her hands on the bed behind either side of her. She regarded Vera with opaque eyes. 

Vera straddled Joan’s lap, pushing her skirt up, and wrapped an arm around the taller woman’s neck. 

“Let me show you how to communicate clearly,” Vera enunciated the last two words. “I want you to fuck me, Joan.” 

Joan’s thin veneer of control rippled. She surveyed the rebellious blue eyes. There was something in them tonight that she hadn’t seen before.

A long silence passed. The slow, measured breaths of the older woman penetrated the heavy silence in the bedroom. 

Slowly, she curled her left arm around the back of Vera’s waist, her hand slipping underneath the white fabric of the uniform, palm sliding over hot skin to rest in the small of the back. She leaned forward, taking Vera’s weight squarely across her thighs. 

Joan brought her right hand up to rest lightly on Vera’s left thigh. She watched the younger woman’s face carefully as she lightly swirled her fingers over the exposed flesh, the thumb dipping down to stroke the inside of the knee. She felt gooseflesh emerge across Vera’s exposed skin. 

There was a light pressure against her neck; Vera reclined a little and tilted her head back as, eyes closing, her right hand came up to push her hair off of her neck, fingers combing through the thick tresses. Her thighs parted, invitingly.

The gesture was incredibly erotic, even more so for the innocence of it. Joan’s lips parted. Her breathing momentarily quickened. 

Vera’s eyes reopened, smoldering as she fixed them on the older woman’s. Joan unhurriedly ran her hand up to the hem of the skirt. She slipped three fingers underneath, and slowly began to push the fabric up to Vera’s hips. Vera gripped the right hand side of the skirt and pulled it up, lifting her bottom a little to facilitate. 

Joan’s hand stopped at the top of Vera’s thigh, lingering there for several seconds. She traced the hand maddeningly slowly down the inside thigh, and back to the top, the long fingers leaving burning trails of arousal across the delicate flesh. Joan traced little circles with her fingers, letting the thumb several times drop provocatively onto the soft flesh of the centre. Vera’s sharp intake of breath brought to Joan a sudden and intense jolt of pleasure.

Joan was fascinated by the incredible effect this light touching was producing in the younger woman.

Joan pushed her own knees outward, causing Vera’s thighs to open wider. 

It wasn’t enough. 

“More,” Joan whispered. 

Vera dropped her right arm onto her right thigh, leaned back, her left arm around Joan’s neck, and supported by Joan’s hand in the small of her back. She shifted, spreading her knees as far as they could comfortably go across Joan’s lap. 

Ferguson took a few moments to fully appreciate the sight. She ran her eyes up Vera’s smooth thighs, over her exposed centre, and took in the flush of her chest and neck. Being in control of this woman’s reactions was intoxicating.

Joan, her hand vertical, let her middle finger graze lightly the crease where the thighs met, eliciting from Vera a tiny groan. Joan felt a shiver down her spine as she watched lust and anticipation burn in the blue eyes. 

The tall woman trailed her finger up the crease, intently watching the response. Vera squirmed on her lap, knees pushing outwards, leaning backwards, instinctively facilitating Joan’s access to the sensitive area. Joan tightened the arm around her waist, dragging her finger downwards.

Vera’s fingers curled into Joan’s neck, her right eye and the right side of her of mouth scrunching a little. Her head began to tilt back, electric sensation coursing through her, radiating outwards from Joan’s fingers as they continued teasing along her lips. She closed her eyes.

“No, Vera,” Joan’s sultry voice floated between them. “Look at me now.”

Vera opened her eyes. Joan was watching her with an almost predatory expression. Momentarily, intense arousal battled with fear as she felt Joan’s two fingers slip in between her lips, briefly brushing her engorged clit before quickly questing downwards, slipping easily through the wet folds to halt for a second at Vera’s entrance.

Abruptly, Joan twisted her hand palm up. 

Vera’s breath caught; a note of uncertainty crept into her eyes. She licked her lips nervously.

Joan’s eyes never left Vera’s as she pushed two fingers deep inside her body. 

Vera gasped. Her head lolled into the space between them.

Joan leaned forward, cradling Vera’s back, leaning her backwards to maintain the angle of her wrist. She tilted her chin up and pressed her forehead to Vera’s.

Joan gently curled her fingers towards herself, building up an even pressure with the pads of her fingers against Vera’s g-spot. Vera closed her eyes, groaned deep in her throat. She wore an intense, almost pained expression. 

Joan could feel clearly the tension in Vera’s body rise as she increased the pressure inside her. Vera’s breathing quickened as Joan applied several slow, firm strokes across the spot. 

Vera disentangled her arms from around Joan’s neck and cupped Joan’s cheeks with her palms.

Joan sensed that Vera was about to kiss her mouth.

She slid her thumb up across Vera’s swollen clit. As Vera gasped again, Joan buried her own face in the right side of Vera’s neck. Vera hung on to Joan’s shoulders as Joan switched her focus back to penetration, to filling Vera’s emptiness with herself. She withdrew all but the very tips of her fingers, held them steady for a moment, and when she felt Vera’s hips squirm in need, she plunged them back inside. Vera moaned, and again as Joan repeated the motion steadily, over and over, her strong arm confidently working in the confined space between their bodies. 

Vera writhed, grinding her hips against Joan’s diligent fingers, moving them in rhythm with Joan’s thrusting. 

In a flash, Joan reflected that, at that very moment, she was inside Vera in every sense: psychologically, emotionally, and physically. She had never held another person in such a complete thrall. The thought almost shattered her control.

Joan watched beads of sweat appear across the flushed neck and collarbone, felt wetness in the small of Vera’s back, where Joan’s arm held the younger woman steady on her lap.

Between the changes in Vera’s breathing and the way her hips were moving, Joan could sense that Vera was already close.

“Wait, not yet, Vera.” Joan breathed the words against the sensual neck.

“I can’t,” breathed Vera.

“Yes, you can,” Joan whispered. “You’ll know when. Only then, Vera.”

Joan slowed the pace of the penetration. She left her fingers inside the smaller woman and began moving her thumb in slow circles around Vera’s clit. 

Vera whimpered, gripping Joan’s neck as she raised herself up on Joan’s lap. Joan pressed her fingertips again into Vera’s g-spot as she continued the ministrations on her clit. Joan could feel a wall of tension vibrating in the small woman’s body. It was clear she couldn’t take much more without release.

Joan tightened her left arm around Vera’s back and began palpitating her g-spot. Her thumb switched from circles to a fast up and down motion. 

She sank her teeth hard into the side of Vera’s neck, being careful not to break the skin.

Vera gasped in surprise as pain met pleasure. She snapped her head back, features contorted, mouth dropping open in a soundless howl. Joan felt Vera’s insides clamp down on her fingers, convulsing in a primal rhythm as her whole body shuddered in an explosive release. 

When Vera’s body stopped trembling, Joan released her neck. Vera slumped against her, spent, breathing heavily, her face buried in Joan’s hair, arms clinging around her neck. Joan held Vera firmly, her own eyes closed, forehead pressed into Vera’s chest. She drifted, light-headed, in her own haze of intense satisfaction.

After a minute, Joan felt confident enough in her level of self-control to slowly withdraw her fingers from inside Vera. Deliberately, she brushed Vera’s clit with a finger as she removed her hand from between the younger woman’s thighs. Vera jolted involuntarily. 

Joan placed her hand on Vera’s waist and opened her eyes. Vera’s chest was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, trickling a little in between her breasts. She watched in silence the rise and fall of Vera’s breathing for several minutes, holding her firm until they were both ready.

After a while, Vera lifted her head and pushed herself back. 

Joan lifted her chin. Vera was regarding her strangely. 

“Are you okay?” Joan’s brow furrowed.

Vera shook her head.

“Did I hurt you?” Joan corrected herself quickly. “Did I hurt you too much?”

Vera shook her head.

Joan tilted her head. “What’s wrong?”

Vera shook her head.

“Are you going to cry?” Joan lifted her stiff left hand to lay a palm against Vera’s cheek.

Vera nodded.

“Okay,” said Joan. “I know tonight was a lot to deal with.” She gathered Vera in her arms and pressed her close as the younger woman began sobbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for loaning me that bite, The_Researcher. Hope I put it to good use.


	15. Chapter 15

Joan glanced over at the sleeping form. Vera was curled up on her right side, head nestled in the crook of her arm. The peaceful features belied what a tempest raged within Vera Bennett when she was angry.

Joan briefly considered teaching her some control techniques. She quickly discarded the thought; Vera was rather interesting when she lost control.

Joan padded over to where Vera lay and gently pulled away her skirt, leaving just the button-down for sleepwear. She retrieved Vera’s discarded underwear, switched off the light, and closed the door. She tossed the clothes in the washer, excavated a blanket and a pillow from the linen closet and made herself a bed on the downstairs couch. 

***

Rising at 0530 had been Joan’s habit ever since her teenage years. A lot could be accomplished in the couple of hours per day that most people wasted in sleep. She meditated, made breakfast, ran the laundry and sat at the table reading the news on her laptop.

Vera came down at quarter past seven, wearing only the shirt.

“I seem to have misplaced something fairly important,” Vera looked sheepish. “Do you know where I, uh, put the rest of my clothes?” She sniffed the air. “Is that coffee?”

Joan nodded. “I washed your clothes for you.” She indicated the hallway closet, where the majority of Vera’s uniform was hanging neatly. “Not the jacket, obviously.” She disdainfully eyed the heavily wrinkled shirt. "I’m afraid your shirt will need ironing before you head in today. I would loan you one of my shirts, but…” Joan gestured at her tall frame. 

“Oh, I’m not going in today. It’s my day off.” Vera entered the kitchen and found the coffee machine. She opened a few cupboards, locating the mugs on the second attempt. Standing on her tiptoes to retrieve one, the shirt rode up, exposing her backside. Horrified, Vera snatched down a mug and whirled around to find Joan smirking at her over the rim of her laptop.

“Em-bare-assed, Vera?” Joan raised a brow. 

“Oh, that’s hilarious,” Vera remarked archly. “You get two points for that one.” She poured herself a coffee and brought the mug to her lips. “God, I’m exhausted.” She gazed at Joan over the steaming liquid.

Joan ignored the bait, her eyes carefully fixed on the screen.

“You ought to be there today, to… take care of Mr. Fletcher on his first day back.” Ferguson’s voice was studiously neutral. 

Vera sauntered over. “You _want_ me to go in to work on my day off?” She leaned nonchalantly on Joan’s shoulder. Her bare legs extended alluringly from under the shirt. “To spend time with Fletcher instead of you?”

The jab connected. Joan closed the laptop and turned in the chair to face the smaller woman.

“I’d like to make certain Mr. Fletcher never spends another moment with you.” Joan ran her hand up the back of Vera's thigh, forcefully gripping her rear.

“Let me take care of Fletcher.” Vera leaned her face towards Joan’s, eyes fixed on the sensuous lips of the older woman. 

Joan quickly raised her own hand and laid a finger across Vera’s lips. 

Vera stopped. “I can’t kiss you?” She straightened, her expression quizzical. 

“Not now.” 

Vera considered whether to push, decided against it. “You slept somewhere else last night.” 

Joan released Vera’s rear. “I slept on the couch.” She stood, and took her empty glass to the sink. 

“You don’t have anything to say about what happened last night?” 

“Last night was self-explanatory, Vera.”

“Really, and what exactly does it explain?”

“That I was wrong when I said you couldn’t come in my bedroom.” 

“Ooh, a dodge _and_ a clever pun,” Vera’s tone dripped with sarcasm. “You must _really_ want me to drop this line of questioning.”

Joan regarded Vera thoughtfully. “You know, Vera, you're much more perceptive than you let on.” 

The women stared at each other for a moment.

“Go get dressed for work.” Joan commanded.

Unperturbed, Vera strolled over to where Joan stood. “Okay,” Vera shot a seductive look up at the taller woman. “But may I please have my knickers back first?” 

***

Vera closed the manila folder and clipped the USB stick to the outside. 

“Jen, have this couriered immediately to Detective Taylor at the Clayton detachment.” She handed over the package, which contained copies of swipe records, CCTV, and her own written statement of the admission made by Matthew Fletcher to having had sexual relations with a prisoner. 

“Yes, Governor.” 

It would be likely be enough evidence for a sexual assault conviction. It was certainly the end of his career in corrections.

Vera looked down at the letter to which she was about to affix her signature as Governor of Wentworth Correctional Facility. 

TERMINATION NOTICE

She took a moment to consider her feelings about ending the career of a man with whom, a short time ago, she had thought she might be in love.

She felt nothing at all: no sympathy, no regret, and no sorrow. He had known better.

She signed it, and made a copy for the HR file.

Letter in hand, she exited her office.

***

He was standing at the end of the hall, just outside the staff room. It was 9:05 a.m. By the look of it, and the number of officers milling around, he had just arrived back a moment ago and was in the process of being mass congratulated.

Not for long.

He saw her as soon as she rounded the corner. He froze where he stood, watching as she marched down the hall towards him, chin up, her body radiating authority, her face a mask of impassivity. 

Something about the imperious way she moved, the way she seemed to _occupy_ the corridor, was different. 

His blood ran cold. 

He had seen that walk, and felt that commanding presence before. 

“Governor.” He knew what was in her hand before she passed it to him.

“Did you really think I would let that go?” Vera’s eyes were cold. 

Fletcher met her gaze. “My God, she got to you.” Fletcher’s expression was part awe, part sorrow. “I can’t believe she fucking got to you again.”

The Governor leaned in to Fletcher’s face. “Goodbye, Mr. Fletcher.” She enunciated each word. 

She straightened, turned on a heel, and swept away.

***


	16. Chapter 16

The phone rang once. “What do you need, Joan?” Channing’s tone was hushed. “I’m about to go into a Board meeting.”

“Get me all of David Rochon’s records,” Ferguson checked her watch. “Send them to the secure drop. Today.”

“The new hire? How the hell do you _already_ know about that?” She sensed a hint of fear in the usually smug voice. “He hasn’t even started yet.”

“I know about everything that happens in my prison.” 

She ended the call. 

A few moments later, a dark grey sedan pulled alongside. Both driver side windows came down simultaneously. Ferguson handed over a large, unmarked envelope. 

“Consider us even.” 

Jesper nodded. He tucked the envelope into the inside breast pocket of his dark anorak. He started to roll up the window.

“I’ve got another assignment for your crew.” Ferguson stared straight ahead.

The window stopped. 

“Somewhere in the evidence locker, there’s a dark grey envelope marked with this code,” Ferguson handed over a small scrap of paper. ”And there’s also a recording device.” She adjusted the rearview mirror. “Bring them to me.” 

“I can’t be seen there again.” Nils’ deep voice disappeared into the darkness. 

“No, I’ve got someone new in mind,” Ferguson glanced over. “I’ll have the details dropped tonight.” She pressed a gloved finger down on the automatic window button. “Contact me when it’s done.”

***

Vera sat at her desk. It was proving close to impossible to accomplish anything at all this afternoon. She found herself increasingly bothered by distracting thoughts. 

She stared at the clock.

Eventually, she sighed, and gave in to the urge. She picked up her iPhone.

 _I took care of him_.

She stared out the window. The muted sound of prisoners in the exercise yard filtered in. A few wispy clouds scudded slowly by. Joan’s fingers burned their way up her spine, a strong hand on her shoulder pushing her forward over—

Vera jolted at the sound of buzzing. 

_Good work, Vera_.

She felt an irrational flare of pleasure. 

She felt as if she were an alien in her own body; there was a constant flutter in her belly, an insistent aching elsewhere, and her pulse raced every time she remembered bits of what had passed between them the night before. At times, the flashes of arousal were so powerful that she had to deliberately shut them down. 

_Dinner tonight?_ She hit send. Her stomach was tight; she even felt vaguely ill.

_Not tonight. Busy._

She exhaled, deflated. 

_Will I see you tomorrow?_ She had the distant sense that she was behaving ridiculously. 

_I’ll call you tomorrow_.

***

Joan didn’t call. 

Around 7:15pm, Vera started to get annoyed. She furiously tapped away at her keyboard. She finished processing the entire stack of equipment requisitions. 

At 8:45, Vera gave up and headed down to the evidence locker.

This new prison boasted a walk-in safe, far more impressive than the incumbent offering, which had been little better than a beer fridge. Still, it had managed to survive the fire. 

The locker was a mess; boxes were strewn everywhere. Nothing had been properly organized and there was no contents ledger. She made a mental note to have a chat with Miles about the need for proper cataloguing.

It was sweltering in the locker. As a fireproof area, there was no ventilation other than what air wafted through the open door. Vera quickly shed her jacket and shoes as she poked around the disorganized collection of boxes, folders and various bagged items.

After an hour of sweating, she found it. A dark grey envelope, containing just one piece of paper: a handwritten letter addressed to Bea Smith, from Kaz Proctor. 

She scoured it. While there was no actual admission of membership in the Red Right Hand, there was underlined in red the catchphrase “righteous acts of retribution.” And it was signed by Proctor herself.

It looked damning enough to Vera. She placed the letter back in the envelope and took it with her, securing the safe behind her.

In the anteroom, she passed the new officer, David Rochon. She nodded curtly. “Mr. Rochon,” Vera stopped. “What are you doing down here?”

“Good evening, Governor,” Rochon stopped. He seemed nervous, and so very young. He couldn’t be much more than twenty-three. “Just doing some rounds.” 

She regarded him evenly for a few seconds. She sensed him squirming nervously under her gaze; she rather enjoyed it.

After a moment, she spoke. “If I recall, Mr. Rochon, you were at Stone Park in Queensland for a short while.” She kept her eyes unreadable.

His body posture clearly communicated his intimidation. Watching his reaction, Vera felt a strip of cold pleasure wind around her gut. 

“Yes, Governor, for three months.” He was stocky, clearly some sort of body-builder. 

“Who was the Governor while you were there?” Vera cocked her head, took a step forward. She already knew the answer.

“J- Jo- Joan Ferguson, Governor.”

“I see. And what was it like, working under Governor Ferguson?” Vera eyed the boy up and down.

“Uh, uh, she, uh, ran a very tight ship, Governor.” 

“As do I, Mr. Rochon.” She stared at him with cold eyes. He visibly quailed.

“Carry on.” Vera turned and strode away. Only once she was safely around the corner did she smile. 

***


	17. Chapter 17

“He said it wasn’t there,” Jesper’s voice rasped. “He looked for hours.” 

A glimmer of irritation crossed Ferguson’s face. “The recorder?”

“Got it.” A gloved hand passed over a small package. “Should I send him back to try again for the letter?”

“No, not yet.” Joan fingered the package, placed it on the passenger seat.

“He said that he ran into the new Governor coming out of the safe right before he got there.” The night was uncomfortably humid. 

Joan turned and stared him down. “Was she holding anything in her hands?”

“I can ask.”

“Ask.” Joan drove away.

***

“Attention compound, attention compound: code blue. Repeat, code blue. All prisoners return to their units immediately.” 

Vera stood. This was it. She grabbed her radio.

“This is sierra two. Casualty report.” She sounded calm and collected, though her heart raced and her limbs felt numb and unresponsive. 

“Sierra two, this is sierra five. Medical emergency on H2. It’s Smith, Governor. She was attacked in the showers. It’s bad, Governor.” 

“I’m on my way.” Vera headed straight for medical.

Smith was in an ugly state when she was brought into medical. Her face was mincemeat; she was missing a tooth, and contusions and welts peppered her slim build. Something had sliced open the outside of her left forearm, from which she was bleeding profusely. 

“Who did this to you, Smith?” Vera bent over the supine form, her eyes affecting a concern that was belied by the feeling of triumph roiling through her guts.

Smith’s broken features formed a gruesome grimace. She knew.

“Lost your crew, did you, Bea?” The Governor leaned over the injured woman’s face. “Do you need to go into protection?” 

Smith shook her head and mumbled. “Hnnnggh.” 

Nurse Atkins interjected. “Governor, I need you to stand back.” She began wrapping the arm with thick gauze to stanch the bleeding. 

Vera stood back and gazed down at the mangled form of Bea Smith. Smith turned to look at the Governor, a confused look in her eyes. Vera met her gaze with unyielding steel. 

It was done.

After a moment, she turned and left. 

“Sierra five, this is sierra two. Make arrangements for Smith to be moved into protection as soon as she’s out of medical.”

***

It was another two days before she heard from Joan. 

_Come over_. 

Oh, fuck no, thought Vera. Not after three days of radio silence.

Twenty-five minutes later: _Are you coming_?

She ignored it. 

Eighty minutes later: _Get over here. Now_.

She stared at it for a long minute. 

She grabbed her things and left.

In the car park, she sat in her car, wavering intermittently between driving home, and driving to Joan’s. 

She started the engine and peeled out of the lot.

***


	18. Chapter 18

Joan had left the front door slightly ajar. 

So arrogant, thought Vera.

Vera entered and closed the door behind her, calmly placing her things on the hallstand. She stood for a moment at the edge of the entryway, watching Joan working in the kitchen. 

Shortly, Joan lifted her head, raised herself to her full height and turned to face the younger woman. Her voice was dangerously calm. “When I tell you to come over, Vera, I expect you to come over.” 

Vera stepped into the kitchen, leaned on the island. “I was downstairs in the evidence locker,” Vera lied. She looked at the floor. “No cell reception, sorry.” 

“Don’t lie to me, Vera.” Joan stood unnaturally still. Even in jeans and a t-shirt, she exuded authority.

Vera’s head came up. “How the hell do you know that?” Vera’s eyes flashed. “I’ll lie to you if I want to, Joan.”

Joan’s voice came low and deliberate. “No, you won’t.” 

The air between them crackled. 

Joan considered her stonily. “Go get yourself a drink.” She stepped back, opening a route to the fridge.

Vera stayed where she was. “I don’t need liquid courage to stand up to you, Joan.” She lifted her chin. “I don’t take orders from you.” 

Oh, shit, thought Vera. She heard her own heart begin to pound. She felt a little light-headed. 

A glow began to spread inside Joan as she studied the younger woman’s confrontational body language. Her pulse started to race. 

“No?” Joan’s voice was deadly serious. “You didn’t come rushing over here when I ordered you to?” Joan stepped forward, towering over the shorter woman. “Don’t ever ignore me like that again, Vera.” 

Vera took a small step back. “You ignored me for three days, Joan.”

Joan said nothing.

Vera brushed past her and yanked open the freezer. She pulled out the vodka bottle and two tall, pre-chilled glasses, giving one glass a very healthy pour, the other, a modest. From the fridge, she poured into each glass a splash of orange juice.

“It’s a screwdriver.” She thrust the larger glass into Joan’s hand. “Drink it.” 

Joan put the glass down on the island counter. “Are you implying you wish to get me drunk?” The finely sculpted brows rose.

“Yes, Joan, I want to get you drunk.” Vera managed to keep her voice even. “I want you to get drunk, whilst I’m completely sober and I play with your… emotions.” She took an over-casual sip of her own beverage. 

Seconds passed in silence. 

Vera firmly placed her drink down on the island and stared expectantly at Joan. “Well?” 

“Well, what?” 

“Drink it!”

Joan calmly regarded the shorter woman. “I don’t obey commands, Vera,” Joan took a step closer, looking Vera right in the eye. “I give them.”

Vera lost it. 

She raised her fists and made as if to pummel the older woman’s chest.

Joan calmly grabbed Vera’s wrists and twisted the younger woman around to face the island. She pushed Vera forward onto the counter, releasing the right hand, but bending the left up behind Vera’s back, pinning it there with her own left hand.

Vera’s chest heaved, her breath misting the dark granite countertop. She could feel Joan’s weight against her, covering her from behind. She struggled halfheartedly. 

Joan’s husky voice was right in her ear. “I think you’re having trouble controlling yourself, Vera.” 

Joan reached down with her free hand and hiked Vera’s skirt up, over her hips. 

Vera breathed hard. 

“You won’t let me close to you.” Vera’s voice was almost a shout. “You’re like a fucking wall!” 

Joan roughly yanked Vera’s white underwear halfway down her exposed thighs, leaving them there. 

Vera felt a thread of icy fear in the pit of her stomach. Her core throbbed.

“Tell me how you feel about me, Joan,” Vera craned her neck to the right, trying to catch sight of Joan behind her. “I know you feel something, so just tell me! Show me how you feel, Joan!” 

Joan palmed Vera’s ass, gripping it firmly as she released Vera’s left hand. “Stay down, Vera.” She lightly placed her left hand on the back of Vera’s neck.

“Fuck, I hate you so much right now,” Vera shifted her left arm across the countertop, resting her forehead atop her forearm. “This isn’t mentorship, it’s abuse!”

“It’s not abuse if you enjoy it, Vera.” The voice was infuriatingly calm. Joan shoved a knee between Vera’s legs, spreading them apart slightly. 

Fear and arousal clashed hard in Vera’s belly. 

Joan leaned her lips to Vera’s right ear. “These three days, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about me fucking you again, have you Vera?” 

Vera brought her right arm around to join the left, and pressed her face into them. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Joan, stop.” 

Joan continued. “You want my fingers inside of you again.” She released Vera’s ass and moved her hand lower, hovering it between the parted thighs. “You came here tonight because you wanted me to do this.” Joan made full body contact, pressing Vera down with every part of her. 

“Stop, Joan.”

Joan stopped.

Vera was breathing fast and shallow. She felt overwhelmed, but whether it was with panic or arousal, she couldn’t quite tell.

“You wanted to know how I feel about you?” Joan’s tone was challenging.

Vera nodded.

“You already know how I feel about you, Vera, you don’t need me to say it.” The hand between Vera’s thighs barely touched her hot skin. “Do you want me to show you?”

“Oh, my God.” Vera’s skin felt like it was on fire. 

“You want me to show you how I feel, Vera?” Joan heard the sound of her own voice as if she were floating outside of her body. 

Vera was acutely aware of the feel of the cold granite of the countertop against her chest.

“Tell me you want it.” The tone of Joan’s command held a hint of a question.

Seconds stretched out. 

Vera nodded imperceptibly.

“What was that, Vera?” Joan’s palm lightly grazed between Vera’s parted thighs.

Vera breathed out, hard. “Yes.”

Joan dragged her index finger across Vera’s clit. 

Vera was unbelievably wet. She groaned into the granite countertop.

“What was that, Vera?” Joan’s finger circled the engorged clit, slowly teasing the squirming woman, increasing the pressure with every second of Vera’s silence.

Vera was beyond articulation. “Oh, fuck.” She knew what was coming. She braced her forehead against her arms and screwed her eyes shut. 

“Oh fuck, what?” Joan’s authoritative tone concealed the fact she was heady. She increased the pressure on the back of Vera’s neck.

“Fuck me!” The emphasis came on the last word.

Immediately, Joan shoved her fingers, hard, inside Vera. Vera groaned throatily as she took the brunt of the fingers. “Oh, my God!”

Joan’s strong arm moved fast, each hard stroke eliciting a loud groan from Vera. After a few moments, she took a step back and leaned her face over the small of the younger woman’s back, continuing to penetrate Vera mercilessly with her long fingers. “Remember what you told me, Vera, in my office that day,” she slowly ran the flat of her tongue up Vera’s spine until she reached the area between the shoulder blades. “When I asked you where your loyalty lay?” 

Vera tried to arch her back, squirming against the overwhelming sensation of Joan’s tongue; Joan roughly pushed Vera’s head down against her arms. 

“Yes,” Vera breathed.

“Say it now, Vera,” She continued the insistent pounding, now slipping her left hand underneath her right and rubbing Vera's clit with each stroke. She returned her tongue to between Vera’s shoulders, and ran it lightly up Vera’s sensitive spine to the base of her neck. “Where does your loyalty lie?"

Vera panted as she reached the precipice. “With you, Governor,” she breathed hoarsely. “Always, with you!”

Vera literally saw stars as she came, hard, against the countertop.

***


	19. Chapter 19

Joan stepped back and leaned drunkenly against the opposite countertop, enraptured by the scene before her: Vera, freshly satisfied and bent over, skirt up around her hips, underwear halfway to her knees. There was a general, raging ache in Joan’s lower body.

She watched as Vera reached behind her with one hand, pulled her underwear up, and smoothed down her skirt. Vera gingerly pushed herself up off the countertop. For a long minute, she stood, back to Joan, hands splayed wide on the island, head bowed. Finally, she turned herself around.

Joan tucked her chin to her chest, marshaling her breathing and the obvious tension in her body. 

Vera stepped forward into Joan’s space and looked up into the occluded eyes. A quiet distance lurked on top of something else Vera couldn’t quite place. 

She inched her right hand forward, seeking Joan’s, watching the dark eyes follow the motion. Joan slowly extended her left hand, entwining it with Vera’s. 

After a moment, Joan lifted her right arm and reached it around Vera’s shoulders. Vera turned her head to the side and curled herself against the tall woman’s body. Joan buried her face in Vera’s meticulously coiffed hair, inhaling her familiar scent.

Vera closed her eyes and pressed her face into Joan’s chest. “Don’t make me go home alone tonight.” Her voice was small and uncertain.

“I won’t.”

“Can I sleep in your bed?” 

“You’ll sleep with me from now on.” Joan stroked the chestnut hair.

“Okay.” She nestled into Joan’s arms.

***

For the first time in decades, Joan Ferguson allowed someone else to sleep in her bed with her. Vera lay curled against her, her head on Joan's chest.

“Vera?” Ferguson’s voice sounded less intimidating in the dark. “Did you find what you were looking for in the evidence locker?” 

“Yeah,” Vera was ensconced in one of Joan’s old sweatshirts. “I did.” Her voice was slurred with sleep.

Joan fell asleep stroking Vera’s hair.

***

“Rochon thinks she had it.” The sound of a passing truck momentarily drowned out Jesper’s voice on the line. “He said she was holding an envelope.”

“And Smith?” Ferguson’s tone was clipped. “Where is she now?”

“In protection. He says that one of the other women deliberately picked off half of Smith’s crew, and another group shivved her in the showers.” There was a note of admiration in Jesper’s voice. “But she’s recovered, and the new Governor put her into protection.” 

Ferguson considered the information in silence.

“Do you want me to find out where the letter went?” 

“No, don’t bother.” Ferguson spoke slowly. She ended the call.

She already knew.

***


	20. Chapter 20

Ferguson sat at the kitchen table, considering her next move. She sealed the USB stick into a plain manila envelope and affixed a typewritten label. Even in gloves, her hands moved confidently.

She thought it through one more time. There was only one logical possibility: Vera had given Proctor the letter in exchange for Proctor taking Smith down in a public but non-lethal manner. 

But why would Vera have turned against Smith after working with her in the mutiny against Ferguson? And why would she want Proctor out of prison?

Vera was unknowingly interfering with Ferguson’s carefully laid plans. 

She needed more information, and there wasn’t enough time. With the letter gone, Ferguson needed to activate her insurance policy, or else Smith would bounce back as soon as Proctor was released. 

That was simply unacceptable. Proctor needed to stay exactly where she was; Ferguson had plans for the woman.

She removed a glove and dialed a number.

“Joan,” Strickland’s voice was pleasant. “How can I help you?”

“I need you to drop a package for me,” Ferguson kept her voice low. “The Proctor recording, to Detective Taylor in Clayton.” 

“Look, Joan, of course I’ll do it for you, but—hold on—“ She could hear Strickland closing his office door. “If you’re planning what I think, you’re going to have a problem.”

“What’s the problem, Jonathan?” Joan checked the manila envelope for any identifying marks.

“The recording by itself may be enough to justify the search of Proctor’s house, but only if it can be authenticated by someone,” Strickland’s voice was hushed. “And it can’t be you, Joan, which only leaves one other person.”

Ferguson understood. “Smith. She has to identify the voices on the recorder as her and Proctor, or it could be just anyone talking.” 

She could almost hear Strickland nodding. “She was the only witness other than you and Proctor, who obviously won’t testify against herself. And the only way Smith will testify against Proctor is if she’s got nothing to lose.”

Ferguson’s mind raced. After a moment, she smiled. 

“See you soon, Jonathan.” She hung up. 

She sat silently for a while, contemplating the problem. With Proctor on one hand and Vera on the other, there was no limit to what she could achieve at Wentworth.

***

It took less than a week for Ferguson's plan to start churning out chaos.

“Governor, Kaz Proctor is asking to see you.” Miles’ omnipresent smirk greeted Vera’s stare as she looked up from her laptop.

“Send her in.” Vera closed the lid and straightened her jacket. She stole a glance at her iPhone. There were no text messages from Joan.

Vera could sense Proctor’s agitation before she even entered the office. Once Proctor sat down, Miles closed the door with another smirk.

“I thought we had a deal, Governor.” Proctor’s blue eyes flashed with an intensity that would have truly terrified the old Vera. 

“What are you talking about, Proctor?” Governor Bennett regarded the prisoner with an inscrutable expression. “We did have a deal, and we’ve both fulfilled our ends of the bargain.”

“You sent the police an audio recording of a private meeting of mine with Bea Smith in the secure visitor box,” Kaz leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “And the police are using it to justify the search of my house.” 

Vera stood up slowly and calmly gazed down at the blonde woman. “I did no such thing.” Her voice was cold steel. 

They evaluated one another for a moment. 

Shortly, Proctor sat back, nonplussed. “Well where the hell did it come from, then?” 

Realization dawned on Vera.

“Obviously Smith recorded your conversation, Proctor,” she lied. “Probably to ensure your loyalty. And now she’s had it sent to the police in revenge for taking out her crew.” 

Vera’s mind raced. What was the endgame here? What was Joan trying to achieve with this latest play?

“You’ve got to help me do something about this, Governor.” Proctor rose. “I need that recording neutralized.” She paced back and forth in front of the desk.

Vera regarded the agitated woman calmly, her eyes unreadable. “If I were you, Proctor, I would be very careful about how you speak to me.” 

Proctor stopped pacing and stood where she was, considering the shorter woman. There was an expression on Vera’s face that Proctor recognized, and a tone in her voice that Proctor understood. 

A few seconds passed. Kaz nodded. “Sorry, Governor.” 

Vera let the words sink into the tense space between them. Two sets of blue eyes regarded one another.

Kaz blinked. “If you get a chance to help me with my problem, Governor,” Proctor dropped into the chair. “I would be in your debt.” 

“That wasn’t the deal, Proctor.” Vera stood behind her desk, looking down at the blonde prisoner. “But I’ll consider it if the opportunity arises.” She looked over at her iPhone. A green bubble hung on the screen.

“You can leave now, Proctor.” Vera lifted the phone and turned her back to the visitor. 

She heard the door close quietly.

***


	21. Chapter 21

After work, she brought a few more things over. Vera sensed that it would be a mistake to insert herself too intrusively into Joan’s space. Joan wasn’t home; Vera let herself in and went upstairs to change into jeans and a t-shirt. 

Vera was curled up on the settee with a book and a glass of wine when Joan returned. She neatly stowed her keys and phone and sauntered into the living room. She peered over Vera’s shoulder. “ _Crime and Punishment_?” She raised her eyebrows. “I thought you didn’t appreciate Russian literature.”

“Well, apparently I still don’t,” Vera shifted herself to make room on the settee. “I’ve just finished it, and if I’m honest, by the end I still wasn’t sure what the whole thing was about.” She patted the seat next to her. “Though, I think I understand _you_ an awful lot better.” 

Joan sat. “Oh, really?” A brow arched. “How so?” A rare smile flirted with the corners of her mouth. She reached over and plucked the wine glass from Vera’s hand, raising it to her lips. 

“I can see why you like this book. It’s so detailed, so many things to process at once. And Rascaltov or what’s his name, God, I couldn’t even pronounce it—“ 

“Raskolnikov,” corrected Joan.

“Right. Well, he pursues his moral code in a certain way and— and I’m not saying you share his moral code, Joan, though I think some parts of it you clearly do—“ Vera put a hand on Joan’s knee. ”He’s very lonely because of it.”

Joan regarded Vera thoughtfully before responding. “Yes, he’s certainly very lonely. Raskolnikov believes he is superior to other people and that society’s morals don’t apply to him.” The dark eyes closed as she swallowed a sip of the wine. “He feels that his criminal acts are justified, because he believes the victims are scum,” Joan handed the glass back to Vera. “He murders an unsavoury woman to prove his moral superiority to himself, by expecting to feel no guilt. Not surprisingly, he doesn’t manage that too well.” 

Vera shifted on the settee. She studied the wine glass in her hand.

Joan smiled at her discomfort. “The problem, Vera, is that ideology is false.” She leaned back in the settee. “Criminal acts based on purely personal judgments are not moral acts.” She studied the younger woman’s face. “Though, Raskolnikov and I do share the belief that decisions ought to be made for the greater good of the most people, regardless of how that makes others feel.” 

Vera considered the statement. “You’re implying that criminal acts can be moral acts.” 

Joan nodded. “I believe that, yes.”

“An interesting perspective for the head of a correctional facility.” Vera smiled wryly before taking a sip of her wine.

“Did you know Simone Slater and Bea Smith were actually very close allies?” Joan’s eyes wore a curious expression. “That Simone regarded Bea as her only friend at Wentworth?”

Vera leaned forward, placing the glass on the table. “I know their daughters were a similar age. That Bea was trying to help Simmo get her daughter away from the Holts.” 

“You didn’t think it was odd that Slater had suddenly agreed to murder Smith?” Joan watched the younger woman consider the question. She cast a side eye at Vera’s glass, sitting on the bare table.

“I did, but I assumed she was acting on orders from the Holts.” Vera stood, retrieved a coaster from the sideboard, and repositioned her glass atop it.

“That’s true, she was.” Joan turned in her spot to fully face Vera. “The Holts had threatened to kill her family if she didn’t take Smith down.” She leaned her elbow on the backrest of the settee, cheek in palm. “And shortly thereafter, Slater had that first overdose, suddenly choosing to inject heroin after a long period of not touching drugs.”

A moment passed as Vera chewed on the thought. “You think she tried to kill herself to avoid a moral dilemma.”

“If I hadn’t been absolutely sure, I wouldn’t have put her out of her misery.” Joan didn’t move. She watched the blue eyes carefully.

Vera nodded slowly. “A moral, criminal act.”

“In my view, yes.” 

“And conveniently fit in with your plan, too. What about Fletcher?”

“Self-preservation.” 

“Spiteri?”

“That…” Joan trailed off. “That’s complicated.”

Vera shifted her weight, drained the glass. Half a minute dragged by in silence.

“I can’t believe we’re sitting here discussing the moral philosophy behind _Crime and Punishment_.” There was an artificial note in Vera’s tone. 

“Rather appropriate for the leaders of a correctional facility, don’t you think?” Joan smiled, brows raised. “Ultimately, the work is about the mental states of people who commit crimes, the idea that through suffering, a guilty conscience can be relieved.” 

There was a pause. “What happened to you to make your conscience need suffering to relieve, Joan?”

Joan started. It was an incredibly perceptive comment. There was a buzzing in her ears. 

“You’ve surprised me more often these past few weeks than I would like to admit, Vera.” Joan’s eyes were clouded. “So I imagine you’ll understand why I’m not going to respond to that.” She looked away.

Vera retreated. “I’ve made my choice, Joan.” She regarded the older woman with a clear, level gaze. “I see your darkness, and I… I love you anyway.”

For the first time, Vera saw a flash of vulnerability in Joan Ferguson’s eyes.

***


	22. Chapter 22

Vera lay on her side, propped up on her elbow. Joan lay beside her on her back, eyes closed, breathing rhythmically. 

Vera trailed her finger down the side of the sleeping woman’s face, brushing away strands of dark hair. Their faces were so close; the urge to kiss Joan’s generous lips pushed insistently at Vera’s chest.

She grudgingly resisted it. 

She studied Joan’s face. This was the face that had caused her so much pain over the past two years, the face she had repeatedly searched for any sign of affection, the face others and even she had learned to fear. There was so much darkness behind this beautiful face.

But there were other things, too: a deep intellect, a cunning mind, an indomitable will, and apparently the capacity for a fierce and abiding love. 

Vera knew she should not let herself love this person. But Joan was right: she was a moth to flame. She sighed, lifting the back of Joan’s hand to her lips. 

“Vera, why do you want Proctor out of prison?” Joan’s sudden voice in the dim bedroom held no hint of sleep. 

Vera started. The dark eyes remained closed. 

“I don’t.” Vera replaced Joan’s hand. “I don’t care what happens to Proctor.” 

“You orchestrated that takedown of Bea Smith.” Joan’s tone was matter-of-fact. 

“She isolated me, tried to eliminate me.” Vera looked away. “So, I permanently isolated her.” She kept her voice even. “How did you know?” 

“Because I know you, Vera.” 

“Bullshit. You know because you’ve got Rochon in your pocket, and he’s feeding you information.” Vera watched Joan’s face for any reaction. 

Joan’s features didn’t flicker. 

Vera rolled closer to the taller woman, leaned in to her ear. “I know you’re planning something, Joan,” she whispered, softly. Joan’s body stiffened imperceptibly. “I won’t question what you’re doing with Proctor, because I don’t want to know.” Vera took Joan’s earlobe lightly between her lips and ran her tongue across the soft skin.

“Vera,” Joan warned. 

Vera reluctantly released the ear. “Just keep my nose clean of whatever it is, please.”

Joan nodded.

Vera pressed herself provocatively against the side of Joan’s body. “And once you’re done with what you’re doing now,” She ran her palm over Joan’s stomach. “That’s it. No more machinations behind my back. If you want something done, you run it through me, and I get the final say. Deal?”

“Deal.” Joan shifted on the bed. Her eyes opened. 

In short seconds, Vera was flat on her back, her wrists pinned above her head in Joan’s left hand. “Do _you_ want something done, Vera?” Joan kneeled over the smaller woman, a challenge in the dark eyes. With her right hand, she pushed up Vera’s nightshirt, exposing her bare thighs.

“Joan, I’m forty-three, and I’ve just started experiencing all of _this_ for the first time.” Vera shifted underneath her. “Of course I want something done.”

They watched one another for a moment. 

Vera squirmed. “I want you to show me _everything_.” 

Final say, indeed, thought Joan. 

***

It was almost pitch black in the cell. Bea could sense rather than see a presence at the foot of her small cot.

She sat up quickly.

“Did you really think I was going to just let you go?” Ferguson’s smooth voice came from everywhere in the cell.

Bea shot a glance where the panic button should have been; the tall figure blocked her view. 

“Ferguson.” She forced herself to sit very still. 

“You’re in a bit of a pickle, aren’t you, Smith?” There was a palpable smugness in the tone.

Seconds passed in oppressive silence.

“Last I heard, you were locked in a mental institution, getting medicated for being…” Bea stood up from the bed. She turned to directly face the taller woman. “A freak,” she finished. 

Ferguson took a step forward, almost toe-to-toe with the redhead. “I admit, Smith, you really had me for a minute. But you failed to take full advantage of your position when you had the chance.” She leaned in to the shorter woman’s face. “Now I’ve regained my Queen, and you’re in check.” 

Smith said nothing. 

“You underestimated me, Smith.” The tall woman straightened, looking down at Bea with a level gaze. “That was a mistake.”

Bea lifted her chin, stared a challenge at Ferguson. “So you’ve managed to sneak in here, so what? You’re not the Governor any more.” 

Ferguson smiled. “You’re right, I’m not.” She paused. “But leadership, Smith, is knowing when to act,” She took the younger woman’s chin in her thumb and forefinger, forcing her face sideways. “And when to let others take action for you.” 

Smith’s eyes widened in realization. 

A small smile curled at the left corner of Ferguson’s lips.

“Consider this visit a… demonstration of my influence.” Ferguson roughly released the chin.

Bea’s eyes searched the taller woman’s. “What the hell do you want, Freak?” The thin lips parted, the head cocked to one side. “You’ve already won. She’s stuck me here!”

Ferguson nodded. “Terribly isolating, isn’t it?” She locked her eyes with Smith’s. “You’ve got nothing left. Nothing left to lose.” 

Bea stared up quizzically at Ferguson. 

“You and I, Smith, we’re alike in many ways.” Joan walked over to the window, looking out. “We appreciate a good fight, a strong adversary.” She drew back the curtain fully; bright light from the crescent moon streamed into the small cell. “You won’t last a year, here, isolated in protection.” There was a deliberate emphasis on the last word. 

Bea understood, her eyes on the dangerous silhouette.

Ferguson continued. “People like us, we need the struggle for power.” Bea could see the moon reflected in the black eyes. “We don’t shy from battle.” Ferguson turned back to Smith, regarded her evenly. “We need it in order to live.”

Moments passed in silence. 

“What do you want?” Bea’s voice was breathless.

“I want you to live another day.” Joan looked down. Smith’s taut shoulders strained against her white tank top. The teal pants rode low, exposing a belly made tight from constant exercise. “To thrive, to fight me again.” 

The two women watched one another. Something nameless passed between them.

“There’s only one way out of here for you, Smith.”

Smith’s brows pulled together. “And what’s that, Freak?”

Joan smiled. “Testify against Karen Proctor.”

“What?”

“About her membership in Red Right Hand.” Ferguson’s voice was quiet now. “You testify, and I’ll let you out of protection. Don’t testify, and I’ll ensure you rot in isolation for the rest of your life.”

Smith considered it.

“If you return to general, and manage to stay alive, then perhaps, in time, you could re-earn your position.” Ferguson reached out a hand, fingered the zipper of Smith’s teal hoodie. “I might even put in a good word for you with the Governor.”

Bea’s eyes were wide and confused. Why would the Freak engineer her downfall and sequester in protection, only to convince her to testify against Proctor so that she could get out?

“If I were you, I wouldn’t tell anyone about this little meeting.” Ferguson fingered the cuffs of the teal hoodie. “Remember Spiteri.”

Ferguson turned and left, her footsteps silent.

When she was gone, Smith sat on the cot, holding her head in her hands.

***


	23. Chapter 23

At the bottom of the stairs, Joan caught sight of Vera in the kitchen. Her head was bent over a cutting board, long brown hair flowing freely across her shoulders, which were encased in a blue collared shirt open at the neck. Vera was obviously intent on whatever it was she was preparing.

Joan stopped, watching the younger woman for a minute. There was something oddly peaceful and comforting about the scene before her. 

Vera looked up and saw Joan watching her. Joan wore dark jeans and a dark blouse, her hair in a loose ponytail. Vera smiled up at her from under her lashes, before turning her eyes back to preparing food. Joan could see the smile continue to play across those lips.

Joan felt her heart suddenly start pounding, a twinge in her gut protesting loudly. 

She stood watching for another few moments, mentally trying on whatever it was she was feeling so strongly. She felt ill and light-headed. She was assaulted by an urge to kiss that long neck and those taut shoulders. 

Realization dawned slowly. She drew her fingers across her mouth, brows furrowed slightly.

Oh shit, thought Joan. She exhaled, slowly. When exactly had _this_ happened? 

After a minute, Vera finished chopping. She walked over to the sink, opening the faucet and letting hot water flow over her hands. She pushed down the top of the soap, pink liquid drooling into her open palms.

She felt Joan come up behind her just as she had worked the soap into a lush lather. There was a light pressure around her waist. 

Joan nuzzled into the chestnut locks, inhaling deeply the scent of jasmine and orange. Vera relaxed against her, water flowing over her hands, carrying away dirt and suds.

Joan pressed her lips to the side of that sweet, inviting neck. She took Vera’s hands in her own, rubbing them slowly, letting the water wash away the remaining soap. She turned off the faucet, slowly trailing little kisses up the exposed neck. 

Vera tried her best to stay quiet and still, petrified that any noise or movement would frighten Joan away from whatever _this_ was. 

Joan, lost in the moment, lightly drew her tongue across the skin at the base of Vera’s ear. She delighted at the younger woman’s sigh. Joan moved her right hand down to cup Vera’s rear through her jeans as she placed an open-mouthed kiss at the base of the shorter woman’s neck.

Vera drew a sharp breath, tilted her head back into the pressure of Joan’s mouth. “Joan,” She licked her lips. “God, Joan,” Her own hands came up, fumbling with the buttons of the collared shirt, releasing two or three. “You turn me on so much.” Vera’s voice was breathless. 

“Hmm.” Joan’s free hand pulled down the loose fabric from the back, continued the languid kisses across the other woman’s shoulders. She placed her palms on the front of Vera’s waist, the left ranging down, flirting with the belt over the tight jeans, the right questing up below the loose shirt. The generous lips captured Vera’s left earlobe, tonguing the soft skin. Vera arched strongly against her.

“I like it when you just take what you want.” Vera startled herself at her own brazenness. Her right hand snaked behind her to find Joan’s thigh. She ran her palm up the tight muscle.

Joan’s tongue trailed up the outside of the ear. “You know, Vera, I’m very, very dangerous.” She dipped her tongue into Vera’s ear. 

Vera groaned deep in her throat, squirming hard against the strong hands holding her against the larger body. “I feel safe with you.” Her hand reached behind her, grabbing the back of Joan’s neck, pulling her closer. 

“You shouldn’t.” The sultry voice whispered in her ear. Joan’s hands were both at the front of Vera’s jeans, fumbling with her belt. “You’re not safe at all, Vera.” She pulled the leather out of the buckle, slipped it free. She started in on the top button, her mouth and tongue on Vera’s ear continuing to drive the younger woman to frenzy.

Vera moved her hands to atop Joan’s. She took over unbuttoning the tight jeans, releasing the fabric from her waist. “I don’t care. I love it.” She pulled down the fly, making room for Joan’s hands to push the material away from her skin.

But Joan’s hands were on her hips again, turning her around to face her. She looked up into the black eyes. Instinctively, Vera reached out her own hands and slid them up, low on Joan’s belly, underneath her shirt. 

Joan brought her own hands forward, covering Vera’s. “No.”

“You don’t like it when I touch you.” Strangely, Vera didn’t feel offended, just curious. “I’ve sensed that before.”

“I don’t like people touching me.” Joan’s voice was quiet, her eyes soft.

“It doesn’t feel good for you?” Vera lifted her hands away; Joan captured them with her own.

“It doesn’t do anything for me, Vera.” Joan’s lips wore a smile. “It never has.”

Vera considered that. “What _do_ you like?”

Joan looked away. Images flashed into her awareness: Vera, pushed over the countertop, her underwear askew. Spiteri, on her knees before her, her eyes imploring. Smith, naked in the shower, chin in Joan’s fingers, forced into promising her loyalty.

These were things Joan knew she could never say aloud; they were unforgivable, even to Vera.

“I like touching you.” It was the truth. “I like making you feel… things.” 

“I like you touching me,” Vera smiled, taking Joan’s hands and placing them on her hips. “I love you, Joan.”

She looked up into Joan’s eyes. What she felt for this woman was nothing like what she had always imagined ‘love’ would be. Everything about it was wrong, but it was liberating, and beautiful, and it was real.

Joan’s pulse was thrumming in her ears. She gazed down at the open vulnerability on Vera’s face. She felt an overwhelming urge to kiss Vera’s lips; to run away; to physically overpower the smaller woman. The conflict felt similar to how she had felt those months ago, right before she lost everything.

Her breathing was erratic. She looked over at the bookcase, drawing her eyes across the volumes arranged carefully on the shelf. Her heart hammered painfully.

“Are you alright, Joan?” Vera searched the tall woman’s troubled eyes. 

Joan fought to be able to think. 

Think, think, think, shit. 

She looked back down at Vera, saw her brow was furrowed, head tilted to one side. 

“It’s okay, Joan, I won’t push you.” Vera took Joan’s right hand and pressed it to her chest. The sprinting of Vera’s heart was palpable through the shirt. She smelled so clean and inviting.

Joan stopped thinking and just gave in to the feeling in her gut.

She raised her hand to Vera’s chin, her eyes fixed on the sensuous lips of the younger woman. Slowly, she bent her head down as she tilted Vera’s chin up, and claimed those lips with her own. 

It was gentle at first, leisurely. Vera’s lips were delightfully soft. Joan was surprised to find she felt no aversion at all to the kiss; she found instead that she wanted more. 

She drew back, startled, at the unexpected touch of Vera’s tongue on her top lip. Vera slid an arm around Joan’s neck, raising herself up on her toes, pressing her body against the tall woman’s. “I want you,” she whispered breathlessly into Joan’s mouth. 

Joan kissed her again, lips slightly parted, venturing her own tongue to Vera’s bottom lip, tracing it lightly across the flesh. She felt the tip of Vera’s tongue touch hers. It was electric; something switched inside her, raging her belly, clouding her mind, taking over her body. 

Joan released Vera’s hand and wrapped her arms firmly around the younger woman’s hips. “Up,” she growled into Vera’s mouth, bending her knees. 

Vera entwined her arms around Joan’s neck, pulling herself up a little. As Joan lifted her off the floor, Vera wrapped her legs around the tall woman’s waist. 

Now of a height with Vera, Joan deepened the kiss, plunging her tongue into Vera’s mouth. Vera’s hands cupped Joan’s face as their tongues entwined, lips hungrily devouring one another. 

Vera was so hot from the kiss that her head was swimming, her skin aflame with arousal. 

Joan was out of her depth, completely overtaken by something far more powerful than her self-control.

The sound of rapid breathing filled the kitchen. Vera mumbled something into Joan’s mouth.

“What?” Joan broke off the kiss, her eyes slightly unfocussed. 

“Is it always like this?” Vera leaned in, sucking on Joan’s bottom lip.

Joan mumbled back. “I don’t know, Vera, I don’t do this very often, obviously.” She reclaimed her lips and dipped her head to Vera’s neck, nibbling and sucking at a particularly sensitive spot.

Vera groaned and tilted her head away, exposing more surface area for Joan’s attention. “Nothing obvious about it!” Her hips squirmed. “I can’t believe how incredible this feels.” She panted as Joan sucked hard just below her collarbone.

“Wasn’t like this with… others?” 

Vera laughed. “God, no!” She could feel Joan smile against her skin. 

Vera continued. “What other delightful surprises do you have in store for me?” She rested a hand on the back of Joan’s neck.

Joan released Vera’s neck and drew back to regard the younger woman. Vera’s eyes were luminous. An inviting smile played on her lips.

Joan planted a comparatively chaste kiss on those lips. There was a mischief in her eyes as she walked them into the living room. She knelt on the couch, and lowered Vera onto her back. 

Vera’s heart raced.

“You say you’re not afraid of me, are you Vera?” Joan lifted Vera’s legs from around her waist, placing them to either side of her as she knelt over the small woman. “Of my ‘darkness’, as you put it?”

“Oh, I’m terrified of you, Joan.” Vera’s fingers worked at the remaining buttons of her shirt. “I’m sure you’ll devour me.” She pushed the shirt open, exposing her chest and belly.

Joan smiled, dipping her lips to the exposed skin. “For this, Vera…” She raised her eyes to the younger woman’s. “It’s… uh, been a really long while.” 

Vera put her hand on the top of Joan’s head and gave it a gentle push. “I have complete confidence in your leadership.” 

Joan laughed. She reached underneath and unclasped Vera’s bra. Vera pulled the straps off and tossed the bra onto the coffee table. “Doesn’t need a coaster,” she deadpanned.

Joan tracked open-mouthed kisses across Vera’s belly and breasts. She took one nipple in her mouth, flicking her tongue over it as she traced the other with her fingers. Vera gasped. “Fuck, that feels good.” Her back arched. She placed her left hand on Joan’s head, fingers entwined in her hair. “Can I touch you like this?”

“Mm hmm,” Joan mumbled, taking Vera’s nipple lightly between her teeth as Vera groaned throatily.

She continued teasing the sensitive flesh with her tongue as she grasped Vera’s open jeans, and began pulling them off the younger woman’s hips, together with her underwear. 

“Oh, my God,” Vera panted. She closed her eyes.

Joan sat up, pulled off the clothes and placed them on the floor beside the couch. She took a moment to survey the gorgeous body below her. 

She took Vera under the back of her knees, lifting them and placing Vera’s feet flat on the couch cushions. She adjusted her position between the spread thighs, watching Vera’s chest heave with anticipation.

Joan lowered her lips to the inside of the left knee. She swirled her tongue in small circles. Vera’s breath caught. Her right hand came up and grabbed a handful of her own hair.

Joan adjusted further, running her tongue up the inside of Vera’s thigh.

Vera squirmed. “Jesus Christ, Joan.” Her breath was already coming fast. “How do you do this to me?”

Joan wrapped her arms around the tops of Vera’s thighs as she fully settled on her front between them. She looked up again at Vera and caught her gaze.

“Don’t ever turn on me again, Vera,” The younger woman’s eyes widened. “I’m not a very forgiving person.” She put her head down between Vera’s thighs and ran her tongue lightly between Vera’s lips, from the bottom up to Vera’s clit. 

She felt Vera’s hand come down on her head, and heard her utter an incomprehensible sound. Vera’s hips pressed upwards against Joan’s mouth. Joan swirled her tongue around the clit a few times, getting sure of her bearings. 

Vera’s hand tightened on her head as Joan began tonguing the clit, lightly at first, and then, as she heard Vera’s breathing quicken, with longer, flat strokes from bottom to top. 

“Oh, my God!” Vera’s back was arching, her head pressing back into the armrest. 

Joan tightened her arms around Vera’s thighs, holding her down firmly. Her own body was responding to the pleasure she was giving, an ache spreading across her lower regions.

She continued the steady strokes for a minute or so, struggling a little to control Vera’s hips as they ground against her, lifting off the couch. Vera’s body was tight with tension, her clit swollen and hard. 

Joan released Vera’s hips and slipped her hands underneath her rear, pressing the younger woman’s body to Joan’s mouth as she applied a light suction across the sensitive area. In the space created by that suction, she began running her tongue rapidly from left to right just underneath Vera’s hard clit.

Vera’s body jolted. “Joan, I…I’m…” Vera sounded almost alarmed. She stopped breathing. 

Joan could feel Vera’s body tensing into orgasm. She continued the motions with her tongue, breathing hard through her nose.

“Joan!” The strangled word slipped out; Vera’s fist clenched hard in Joan’s hair. She came fast, silently and writhing.

After a few moments, Vera’s fist unclenched. Joan released the suction, trailed a few light strokes over the softening clit, and withdrew her mouth. She quickly grabbed the jeans from the floor, surreptitiously wiped her face with them, and withdrew from between Vera’s thighs.

Vera sat up. The women sat for a moment just looking at each other.

After a pause, Joan spoke. “Delightful enough surprise?” A satisfied smile teased at her lips.

Vera nodded. “That was incredible. I’m only sorry I couldn’t last longer.”

Joan shook her head. “Oh, it’s not over, Vera.” She stood up and extended her hand. “I’m not done with you yet. Come on.” 

Vera took the hand. Joan led her upstairs to her bedroom.

***


	24. Chapter 24

Joan stood in the back corner of the crowded courtroom. 

“We’re on the record.” The court clerk rose to adjust the microphone on the bar. 

“In the Supreme Court of Victoria, this 18th day of December, 2015, the Honourable Judge Brown presiding.” The clerk flipped open a thick green file. “Calling C-25157, Your Honour, the matter of The Queen versus Karen Proctor.” She sat.

A woman on the left side of the bar stood. “Taylor, initial L, for the Crown, Your Honour.” 

A second woman joined her on the right hand side. “Your Honour, Carolyn Clarke for the accused.” 

The judge looked up from taking notes, peering over the rims of his glasses. “Very good. Go ahead, Ms. Taylor.” Clarke sat. 

“Your Honour, this matter is for _voir dire_ today, with respect to the admissibility of evidence collected on June 23, 2015 at the accused’s home in Melbourne,” Taylor looked over at Clarke. “Defence counsel has called this hearing as a separate proceeding in advance of the trial, which is scheduled for March of next year.” She flipped open her file. “The Crown is ready to proceed.”

The judge glanced over at Proctor’s lawyer. “Ms. Clarke?”

Clarke rose as Taylor sat. “Yes, Your Honour. Ms. Taylor and I agree that procedurally, the trial depends on whether this evidence is found to be admissible, and as the accused is presently held on remand,” She gestured at Proctor, sitting to her right. “At great prejudice to herself and, of course, consuming State resources, we have agreed that it makes sense to resolve the question now rather than at trial.” She looked over at the prosecution. “There is just the one witness, Your Honour, for the Crown. The defence is ready to proceed.”

The judge nodded. “Alright, counsel, I’ve read the file, and your respective briefing notes. I’m aware of the charges and the overall circumstances of the search of Ms. Proctor’s home.” He nodded at the Crown prosecutor. “The issue today is simply whether the Crown can sufficiently corroborate the anonymous tip that led to the warrantless search of Ms. Proctor’s home. Is that correct, Ms. Taylor?”

Taylor nodded. “Yes, Your Honour.” She passed a USB stick to the court clerk, who passed it up to the judge. “We were advised several weeks ago that the tipster’s letter, which had originally formed the corroborating basis for the police search, has _unfortunately_ disappeared.” She cast a glance over at Proctor. “However, a digital recording of the admission to the same effect as the letter has subsequently come to light, and the question today is whether the witness can authenticate that recording.”

Judge Brown adjusted his glasses. “Call your witness, Ms. Taylor. If the witness can authenticate the voice on the recording as Ms. Proctor’s, I’ll be satisfied that the evidence against her is admissible.” He glanced over the rim of his glasses at the defence lawyer. “And Ms. Clarke, having read your brief, and before you say anything on the point of the prisoner’s reasonable expectation of privacy, I note that, notwithstanding those few very outdated cases you dredged up from the 80s, the law is very clear that prisoners have no expectation of privacy with visitors, unless it is a therapist, lawyer or similar. An authenticated recording is admissible, so I suggest you stow your submissions on that point.”

Proctor’s lawyer nodded in acknowledgement, closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. She and Proctor exchanged whispers.

Taylor continued. “Thank you, Your Honour.” She turned to face the court clerk. The Crown calls Bea Smith.” 

After a moment, a door on the far right side of the courtroom opened. There was a murmur in the room as Bea was led in, wearing an orange jumpsuit, her wrists handcuffed and legs loosely linked by a metal chain. Two sheriffs on either side of her held her arms firmly and escorted her to the witness box. 

As she rounded the corner into the box, she caught sight of Ferguson at the back of the room. Two pairs of dark eyes locked onto one another for several moments. 

Bea remained confused as to why Ferguson would go to the trouble of pulling her down, only to let her go in exchange for this testimony. She had never struck Smith as the cat-and-mouse type. 

Bea looked away first. She sat down in the witness box, turning her gaze to where Proctor sat.

Proctor’s icy blue eyes were hard and unflinching. Though her face showed no reaction to Bea’s presence, Bea was struck by the distinct aura of danger and hostility surrounding the blonde woman. 

She knew in that moment that she was no match for Proctor’s cold ruthlessness. 

“Do you wish to affirm or swear an oath on the bible?” The court clerk stood, facing the witness.

In a flash, the truth dawned on Bea. Ferguson wasn’t interested in toying with her in some ongoing power struggle. She didn’t want Bea to ‘live another day’. In fact, Ferguson wanted her dead, and had correctly identified Proctor as someone willing to do her dirty work. 

“I’ll affirm.” 

“Stand, please, state your name for the record, and spell your last name.” The clerk’s voice held the bored monotone of someone who had uttered those words a thousand times.

Bea, her eyes still on Proctor’s, pointedly glanced back over at Ferguson, who was watching her intently. Bea looked back to Proctor, then again to Ferguson, and finally back to Proctor. 

Proctor’s brows knit. She turned her head to see where Bea was looking. 

Kaz had never met Joan Ferguson, but with one glance at the tall woman standing at the back of the courtroom, her arms crossed, her blank yet somehow malevolent expression, and at the look of desperation on Bea Smith’s face, Proctor understood that she herself had become a pawn in someone else’s power game.

Smith stood. “Bea Smith, S-M-I-T-H.” Bea continued staring at Proctor. Her brown eyes voiced a soundless appeal.

One thing was clear: Bea Smith was about to testify to Proctor’s voice on that recording.

“Do you solemnly affirm that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” The clerk’s voice rang out into the now quiet room.

Proctor’s mind raced back to something the judge had said. Wait, why was Bea here to testify that it was her _voice_ on the recording? Why not to testify that she had made the recording, or that Proctor had admitted directly to her that she was a member of Red Right Hand? 

Realization went off like a bomb: _because Bea had never been the lagger_. It was someone else, someone who planted that recording device in the interview room. This had never been about her; it had been about a war between Smith and that someone else.

The woman standing at the back of the courtroom, staring down the woman who was about to put her away for life. The former Governor, Joan Ferguson. 

Karen Proctor ripped her eyes away from Smith, turned in her chair, and stared directly at Joan Ferguson. Ferguson’s black eyes showed no reaction at all. Proctor’s narrowed to slits before she turned back to face the court.

Ferguson saw that Proctor had just made her. There was nothing she could do except trust that everything continued to go to plan. 

The Crown prosecutor turned to face Bea. “Ms. Smith, I’m going to play an audio recording for the court, and I’m going to ask you whether you can identify for the court who the speakers are in the conversation.” She nodded to the court clerk.

The court clerk clicked at her computer. After a moment, the courtroom audio came on, loud and clear.

Proctor locked eyes with Smith as the recording ran. 

_Hey._  
_Have you got a name for me? Kaz? Well?_  
_Yeah, I got it. Nils Jesper. Ex-crim. Did 5 years for armed robbery, 8 years for manslaughter. He got out in '98 and just dropped off the radar._  
_And you're sure this is the guy? 'Cause I've got one chance. There's no room for mistakes._  
_Bea, Red Right Hand don't get it wrong. We did a cross-match on the Vic Police database. It's him. Nils Jesper. N-i-l-s._  
_Yeah, I gotta go._  
_What level of retribution are we talking about? We need to know._  
_No, you don't need to know._  
_We got it covered. You said he was ours after the last meeting._  
_Ms. Miles!_  
_What the fuck are you doing? Don't you turn your fucking back on me!_  
_Look, I don't give a shit about you and the Red Right Hand, OK?_  
_You fuck!_  
_I need to see Mr. Jackson._  
_Fucking user! You fuck!_

The audio finished. The courtroom was deathly silent.

Taylor’s voice broke the tense stillness. “Ms. Smith, one of the speakers on that recording was called Bea by the other. That’s you, isn’t it, Ms. Smith? You’re the Bea to whom the second person refers?” 

“Objection, Your Honour,” Clarke stood up. “Crown can’t lead her own witness!”

The judge waved it off. “Oh, come on, Ms. Clarke, this isn’t law school. Let’s just cut to the chase here, shall we?”

Clarke sat, dejected.

“Yeah, that’s me. In the recording. It’s my voice.” Bea’s felt blood rushing through her temples, her pulse pounding in her neck. Her eyes repeated their mute appeal. 

Proctor shifted in her chair. There was no way out of this other than to accept Bea’s unspoken proposal. She had been used, certainly, but Bea hadn’t lagged. She’d simply been played, as had Bea. She could let this go and still save face within the network, both inside and out, albeit with a lot of groundwork. 

Taylor continued. “Ms. Smith, please tell the court the identity of the second person in the conversation we just heard today, the person whom, in the recording, you called ‘Kaz’.”

Proctor nodded imperceptibly to Smith. She dropped her eyes to the table.

Bea exhaled slowly, the fidgeting hands in her lap going still. 

“I’m sorry, I just don’t remember.” Bea heard the sound of her own voice as if from very far away.

The courtroom immediately erupted into utter mayhem. Two rows of women squashed into the right side of the gallery stood up and cheered loudly, clapping and raising hand-made signs of support for Proctor. On the opposite side, half the gallery leaped to their feet, gesturing wildly and shouting in anger. 

The Crown prosecutor’s disgusted expression disappeared behind a wall of sheriffs bursting into action towards the gallery. 

Clarke turned to look at her client, her face stricken. Proctor stared at Smith, the corner of her lip rising into a sardonic smile. Smith turned her eyes over to Ferguson. The look the tall woman shot her was pure, blood-chilling wrath.

Ferguson roughly pushed her way through the excited throng. At the door, she paused and turned to look over at Proctor. Calm, icy eyes were already on her. 

A mutual understanding passed between the women. Ferguson turned again and left the courtroom.

The judge resignedly tossed his glasses onto the bench. “The evidence is excluded, and consequently, the Crown’s case against Ms. Proctor is dismissed.”

The sound of a single gavel rap was drowned in the cacophony.

***


	25. Chapter 25

There was a huge crowd at the gate through which Karen Proctor was about to be released from the Wentworth Correctional Facility. Several media trucks had pulled up, and a gaggle of reporters was milling around, everybody waiting for a glimpse of the newly exonerated freedom fighter.

Far to the right, a lone, red-haired prisoner leaned on the inside of the fence, watching the crowd.

At precisely noon, Karen Proctor began the walk down the fenced corridor, carrying a small box of her belongings. Her blonde hair flowed freely, blowing in the light breeze. Governor Bennett’s small but commanding form led her forward.

At the sound of the gate buzzing, the crowd exploded. Proctor emerged from the gate, followed by the Governor. The media immediately surged towards the two women.

Ferguson watched it all from her car.

Proctor gave a tearful yet triumphant statement of victory for the cameras. Governor Bennett gave a few noncommittal snippets for the six o’clock news, carefully chosen to bring credit to the administration of justice and to Wentworth both.

After fifteen minutes, Proctor left, and the crowd began to quickly disperse. Joan got out of her car and strolled towards the gate.

As Vera turned to go back into the prison, she caught sight of Joan.

So did Bea Smith, standing in the protection exercise yard.

The two Governors approached one another, meeting a respectful distance from what was now Vera’s territory.

“Well, that didn’t go at all the way I wanted it to,” Joan’s voice held an uncharacteristic mirth. “I suppose my work here isn’t quite finished, is it?” She gazed down, smiling, at her protégée. 

“Our work,” Vera corrected. “Now that Proctor’s coming after you, you’ll just have to delay Hobart until the situation’s cleared up.”

They laughed together. 

“Will you pick me up later, or shall I see you at home?” Vera resisted the urge to reach out and touch Joan’s hand.

“I’ll come get you at six.” 

Bea was too far away to hear their conversation, but not so far as to miss the unmistakable look on Vera’s face as she gazed at Ferguson. 

Vera’s eyes were bright, a delighted smile on her lips. As she looked up at the older woman, there was a certain tilt to the head, a natural deference, and something decidedly intimate in that smile. They were standing far too close to each other. 

Bea caught her breath, her lips parting in horror. 

It couldn’t be.

As Vera turned away from Joan, Bea saw Ferguson’s hand reach out and quickly touch the Governor’s rear. Vera looked back over her shoulder, and shot the tall woman a glance that shattered any doubt in Bea’s mind as to what she had just observed.

And then she saw that Ferguson was looking right at her, taking in her shocked expression with a smug, satisfied smile.

Ferguson turned on a heel and walked away from the prison.


End file.
